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Lectures and Essays' 



ON 



Irish aid Other Subjects. 



By henry GILES. 

If 



NEW YOEK: 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET. 

BOSTON :— P. 11. BRADY, 149" 'J^REMONT STREET. 

MONTREAL : 
OOK. NOTRE DAME AND ST. FRANCIS XAVIER STREET. 

18G0. 



^S''^ 



0-^ 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, 

By D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 

Southern District of New York. 



BEQUEST OF 

ANNA ?£nK!r:3 SlEWAftT 

JArJoAHV 22. 1947 

THE LIBRARY OF COHGSrsi 



stereotyped by VINCENT DILL, 

■15 & 27 New Chambeni St, N. V " 



PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. 



The Lectures and Essays here given to the public are among the finest 
efforts of the genius of Henry Giles. None of the contents of this 
volume have ever before been published in book form. The many thou- 
sands who had the privilege of hearing Mr. Giles discourse on "Spirit of 
Irish History," "Irish Wit and Humor," "Irish Character, Mental and 
Moral," "Ireland and the Irish," " Irish-born Citizens, " "Irish Emigra- 
tion," "Daniel O'Connell," or "John Philpot Curran," will be glad of 
the opportunity of having those noble Lectures by them for frequent 
perusal. So, too, with the Essays on ' ' Doctor Doyle " " Oliver Gold- 
smith," "Gerald Griffin," and "Wit and Humor in Scotland," written 
for a Boston periodical ; many will be pleased to have them in a more 
permanent form. 

The beautiful Lecture on "Catholic Art and Protestant Culture," new to 
most readers, will be found one of the most admirable essays ever written 
on a similar subject. It is probably one of the finest specimens in our lan- 
guage of that particular style of writing. "The Cost of War," written 
during and in relation to our own disastrous but, happily, successful war, 
was read in New York and other cities by a friend of Mr. Giles, after the 
gifted author had become unable to travel or to appear in public. This 
Lecture was, we believe, the last production of his brilliant and prolific 
mind. 

This volume is invested with a mournful interest, from the fact of its 
bemg revised by the author in his sick room, if not in his sick bed. Some 
of its contents have already delighted thousands, as they are destined, we 
trust, to delight thousands and tens of thousands in the after time, when 
the bright spirit from which they emanated shall have winged its way to 
other spheres. They are among the latest flashes of a genius that may 
shine no more as once it shone — of a mind prostrated by much suffering, 
and darkened by much tribulation. Nevertheless, they will be foimd not 
unworthy of the brightest days of their author's earlier life. 

New York, May 21, 1869. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

^ SPIRIT OF IRISH HISTORY 9 

" IREI^ND AND THE IRISH in 1848 40 

DANIEL O'CONNELL 7G 

JOHN THILPOT CURILVN 104 

IRISH EMIGRATION I.JO 

IRISH BORN CITIZENS 157 

IRISH CHARACTER, MENTAL AND MORAL 184 

IRISH SOCIAL CHARACTER 207 

GERALD GRIFFIN 233 

DR DOYLE 259 

^ OLIVER GOLDSMITH 288 

TilE CHRISTIAN IDEA IN CATHOLIC ART AND IN PROTEST- 
ANT CULTURE 31(5 

THE COST OF WAR 342 

POPULAR WIT AND HUMOR, ESPECIALLY IN SCOTLAND.... 3G5 




GILES' LECTURES. 



SPIRIT OF IRISH HISTORY. 



It is now some years since I began to speak in Boston. 
Among the first of my efforts, Ireland was my theme. I 
endeavored, as best as I could, to tell her story. I was 
heard with generous interest, but it was the stoi*y, and not 
the tellei', that inspired it. It was called for throughout the 
length and breadth of New England ; it was repeated in city 
halls and in village lyceums. Old and young, grave and gay, 
listened to it with open ears and with eager hearts ; and to 
many of them it seemed a new, and wild, and strange recital. 
It is no longer novel. It is now, not a story, but a drama ; 
a black and fearful drama, which civilized nations gaze upon 
with a terrified astonishment, that has no power to weep. 
It was then gloomy and sad enough, and to those who know 
Hfe only in its general comforts, it appeared a condition 
which it would be hard to render worse. But the presump- 
tuousness of man is constantly rebuked by the vicissitude 
of events. It is but too surely so in this case. There was 
yet the vial of a deeper woe in store, and that vial is now 
open. Tragic as the story of Ireland was, when first I 
tried to tell it, it might yet be given with those flashes of 



10 Giles' Lectures. 

mirth and wit, tliose outburstings of fun, and drolleiy, and 
oddity, and humor, which can be crushed in the Irish heart 
only by the heaviest load of sorrow. Of such weight is 
now the burden that lies upon it. 

Ireland, now, is not simply a place of struggle, of want, 
of hard work, and of scanty fare, it has become a wilder- 
ness of starvation. The dreariest visitation which human- 
ity can receive, rests upon it — not of fire, not of the sword, 
not of the plague ; but that, compared with which, fire, and 
sword, and plague, are but afilictions ; that is. Hunger — 
hunger, that fell and dreadful thing, which, in its extremity, 
preys more horribly on the mind, even than the body; 
which causes friend to look on friend with an evil eye, and 
the heart of a maiden to be stern to her lover ; and the 
husband to glare upon the wife that nestled in his bosom, 
and the mother to forget her sucking child. Such, though 
we trust never to come to this awful extremity, is the nature 
of that calamity which lately has been preying upon Ire- 
land. It is not, indeed, at this awful extremity, but far 
enough towards it, to spread over that beautiful island a pall 
of mourning ; far enough towards it, to quench the joy of 
childhood, to bow down the strength of men, to wither the 
loveliness of women, to take away the comeliness of the 
young, and to cover the heads of the aged with a sorrow 
darker than the grave. We cannot think of it with other 
thoughts than those of grief. We cannot refer to it with 
other speech than that of sadness. For my own part, I 
cannot hear of this terrible affliction ; I cannot read of it ; 
my imagination, of its own accord, transports me into the 
midst of it, and, for the time, I dwell in the company and 
throngs of the wretched. The necessity that compels me 
to think and speak of it, bows down my soul to the earth, 
and I am almost prompted to exclaim, in the words of the 
prophet, " O, that my head were waters, and my eyes were 



Spirit of Irish History. 11 

fountains of tears, that I might weep day and night for the 
slain of the daughters of my people." 

Multitudes are perishing ; that fact admits neither of doubt 
nor of dispute. Multitudes are perishing ; that fact is as 
certain as it is terrible. It does not signify what they are 
<)r where, the fact is still most horrible and most appaUing. 
Were they savages in the depths of an African wilderness, 
our common humanity would urge us to send them succor. 
Were they the most utter strangers, foreign to us in evei'y 
mode of thought and habit, that can render nations alien 
to each other, they would still be within the embrace of that 
common humanity, and its voice would plead for them. 
Were they most base and worthless, both in character and 
condition, their misfortunes would give them dignity, and 
win from us compassion. Were they enemies, and had 
done us the worst of injuries, not only the precepts of the 
Gospel, but the sentiments of magnanimit}^ would impel us 
to help them in the hour of their agony. But they are none 
of these. They have given to civilization some of its most 
quickening elements ; some of its most brilliant genius ; 
some of its fairest ornaments ; some of its most heroic 
minds. Numbers of us, here, are bone of their bone, and 
flesh of their flesh ; the fathers who supported our youth, 
live above, or lie below, the green sward of Erin ; the 
mothers who sang our infancy to sleep with its plaintive 
melodies, are still breathing its air, or gone to mingle with its 
saints in heaven. To all of us, of whatever nation, they are 
kindred in the ties of that solemn existence, which we feel 
the more intensely, the more it is afflicted. They are a 
people, too, whose own ears have been always open to the 
cry of the distressed. They have ever been willing to give, 
not merely of their abundance, but even of their want ; a 
people whose hospitality is free as the wind upon their 
mountains, and generous as the rain upon their valleys ; the 



12 Giles^ Lectures. 

fame of it as wide as the earth, and as old as their history. 
This people are noAV in grievous troubles. They are in the 
midst of famine, and we are in the midst of plenty. Out of 
this great plenty we are sending them ^support, and with 
support our pity and our prayers. Let us most gratefully 
and humbly bless God, who has put this most blessed privi- 
lege in our power ; the privilege of saving those who are 
I'eady to perish, and of causing thovisands of breaking hearts 
to sing for joy ; to change mourning to gladness, and the 
spirit of heaviness for the spirit of praise. 

I am not here to excite an interest ; for that is already ex- 
cited, and has been working bravely through the land with 
a passionate emotion. It has been shaking the hearts of this 
great people to the utmost verge of their dominion ; agita- 
ting, not their cities alone, but piercing the sympathies of 
those who dwell in shanties on the open prairie, and by 
the half cleared forest; melting into tenderness, not the 
women of the land alone, but subduing the hardy men of 
the woods, of the camp, of the ship, and of the battle-field. 
I would not insult your sympathies by appealing to them ; 
I would not insult your generosity by praising it ; I am not 
here to plead a cause. Humanity in millions of hearts have 
effectually pleaded that cause already ; and hands are hfted 
up, while now I speak, to thank Heaven, and the good 
humanity in which Heaven lives on earth, for the sympathy 
with which it has responded to the cries of affiicted brother- 
hood. 

I will not therefore enlarge on the present distress ; I 
will not, and I cannot, go into its technical detail ; neither 
will I vaguely ascribe this great suffering to Providence. I 
will not seek the sources of it in the clouds above, or in the 
earth beneath ; I will try, so far as my light leads me, to 
seek those sources in directions whore they may be intel- 
ligibly accounted for. I would lay no blame on the present 



Spirit of Irish History. 13 

generation ; I do not speak of them. I am not insensible 
to the great exertions of the Government of the British na- 
tion to meet the tremendous crisis now existing ; nor would 
I speak otherwise than in heartfelt, enthusiastic sympathy 
of those huge manifestations of kindness in the British 
nation, which show forth those sublime charities, that vin- 
dicate the divine and God-imaged character of our nature. 
I will endeavor to review the whole system, of which the 
present distress is a part, and of which it is a result ; I will 
endeavor to seek out whence it has originated, and how it 
may be changed ; I will endeavor to tx'ace some of its causes, 
and to indicate some of its remedies. I must, of course, 
confine myself to a few striking points, not alone by the limits 
of our time, but by the requirements of the occasion. The 
occasion is one, that will not tolerate much that admits 
greatly of dispute ; it is one that requires all the concili- 
ation which truth can sanction. It will therefore be my 
desire, in analyzing causes, and in specifying remedies, to 
take as broad and common ground as, with my opinions, it is 
possible for me to take. It will be also my desire to give no 
candid or just man offence ; and though such a man may 
dispute my positions, I trust that ho wiU have no complaint 
to make against my spirit, or against my temper. 

The causes of Irish distress many find wholly in the char- 
acter of the people. On this topic, we cannot afford to en- 
large ; and that it may not stand in our way as we proceed, 
we wiU grant, for the sake of argument, that the character 
of the people is as idle and as reckless as these philoso- 
phers describe it, and still it will be seen that, to ascribe 
the state of Ireland to this cause alone, or to this cause 
mainly, is not only partial, but false ; at variance alike with 
any comprehensive grasp of sound logic or personal observa- 
tion. The cause of any particular suffering in Ireland is 
seldom local or temporary, seldom to be found within itself 



14 Giles' Lectures. 

or near it. The causes even of the present destitution are 
not all immediate ; they are not all in the failure of the 
potato crop, not all in the character of those who plant the 
potato and Hve on it. The potato, it is true, is a precarious 
vegetable, and the people of Ireland, who have fed upon it 
for generations, are not in all things the wisest and most 
provident of nations ; but in any sound state of things, it 
would not, surely, be within the limits of any contingency, 
that miLlions should Avither into the dust, which had failed 
to afford nourishment to a fragile root. Such afflictions as 
Ireland is now enduring, terrible as they are, are not singular 
in her experience. They have been but too often her mis- 
fortune ; and though, to oiu- view, they are strange, they 
are, in her story, sufficientl}- famihar. But these afflictions 
come not fi'om the skies above or the earth beneath ; and, 
therefore, we shall not ascend to the heavens, nor go down 
to the deep, to seek their causes. Most of them are within 
the range of very ordinary inquiry, and they are both in- 
telligible and explainable. I shall speak on causes of two 
kinds ; one historical, and one social. 

And, first, of the historical. Ireland has long been a 
country of agitation. The elements of discord were sown 
early in her history ; and throughout^ her course, they have 
been nourished, and not eradicated. At first, divided into 
small principalities, hke all countries so circumstanced, strife 
was constantly taking place among them, either for dominion 
or defence. It did not happen to Ireland as to England, that 
these separate states had been subdued into unity by a 
native prince, before the intrusion of a foreign ruler. It did 
not happen to Ii-eland as to England, that the foreign ruler 
took up his residence in it, identified his dignity with it, and 
that his children became natives of the soil. England, pre- 
vious to the invasion of "William the Conquex'or, was a united 
empire, and therefore, though at the battle of Hastings, the 



Spirit of Irish History'. 15 

occupant of the throne was changed, the integrity of the 
nation remained. Ireland was made up of divided and con- 
flicting states, when the myrmidons of Henry the Second 
arrived upon its shores ; and even after these had gained 
settlements in the country, there was no adhesive principles 
among the natives. Had Ireland been consoHdated, she 
could not have been conquered ; or, being conquered, she 
would, like England, have absorbed the conquerors. The 
spirit of English nationality was never stronger than it was 
in the princes of the Norman line ; and they asserted it with 
a haughtiness, oftentimes with an injustice, that rendered 
them formidable to every neighboring state. They Avere 
the most inordinately jealous of any internal interference 
with the concern of their kingdom, either of a secular or a 
spiritual character ; for generations they guarded England 
with even a ferocious pride, but, also, with a commendable 
zeal, they reared up her native institutions, and brought out 
her latent energies. 

But the stranger came to Ireland, and a stranger he still 
remained. English dominion commenced in Ireland in a 
spirit of conquest, and it continued in a spirit of exclusion. 
National animosity thus perpetuated, sustained the spirit of 
war, and war raged on with a fierceness which time did 
nothing to mitigate. The native chieftains, when not in 
conflict among themselves, united against the common foe ; 
and the end of every new struggle was increased oppression 
to the people. Covetousness was added to the other baser 
passions ; and rapacity inflamed the anarchy in which it 
hoped for gain. Defeated rebellion brought confiscation ; 
insurrection was, therefore, the harvest of adventurers ; sol- 
diers of fortune, or rather soldiers for fortune, gathered 
like wolves to the battle. They were ready to glory in the 
strife and to profit by it; they enjoyed the soil of the wretches 
whom they slaughtered, and the work seemed as great a 



16 Giles' Lectures. 

pleasure as the recompense. Exhausted, however, in rob- 
bing the aborigines, they sought new excitement in despoil- 
ing one another ; and, tired of fighting for plunder, they 
began at last to fight for precedence. So it continued to the 
period of Elizabeth, and though that brought a change, it 
did not bring improvement ; for to the conflict of race was 
now added the conflict of rehgion. 

This age of Elizabeth, which was to Europe the dawn of 
many hopes — this age of Ehzabeth, which was so adorned 
and so enriched with all that makes an age transcendent 
— this age of Elizabeth was only for Ireland a heavy and a 
starless night. The government of Elizabeth, which had 
so much glory for England, gave no promise to Ii-eland. 
Under the sway of Ehzabeth, Ireland lay in tempest and in 
waste. Oppression, that makes wise men mad, will provoke 
even despair to resistance, and resistance was obstinate and 
frequent in Ireland to the rulers whom Elizabeth set above 
them. Resistance was put down by methods the most inhu- 
man ; the crops were destroyed, dwelling-houses burned, 
the population indiscriminately massacred, famine the most 
terrible ensued, and hunger withered those whom the sword 
had spared. The people were slaughtered, but not subdued ; 
the soil was not enriched, but ravaged ; no arts arose ; no 
principles of wealth or hberty were developed ; life was unsafe; 
and property in the true sense was scarcely known. Even 
the stony heart of Elizabeth at length was touched ; human- 
ity, for once, shot a pang to her breast. " Alas, alas ! " she 
cried ; " I fear lest it be objected to us, as it was to Tiberius, 
concerning the Diolmatian commotions — you, you it is who are 
to blame, who have committed your flock, not to shepherds, 
but to wolves." And to wolves, they were still committed. 
Such was the rigor of the ordinary government, that a deputy 
of the most ordinary kindness, gained the worship of the 
unhappy Irish, and became hateful to the jealous queen ; 



Spirit of Irish History, 17 

so that the gratitude of the people ruined, at the same 
time, their benefactors and themselves. And yet, this age 
of EUzabeth was a glorious age. Every where, but Ire- 
land, it was filled with power and with promise. From the 
death of Mary to that of James the First, was a period 
such as comes but seldom, and when it comes, such as 
makes an era. A mighty life was palpitating among the 
nations ; the head of civilized humanity was filled with 
many speculations, and the heart was beating with mjarvel- 
lous fancies and magnanimous passion. Genius and gloiy 
had burst as a flood of light upon the world. The feudal 
system was passing away. The arm of its oppression had 
been broken, but its high-bred courtesy yet remained ; its 
violence was repressed, but its heroic spirit had not been 
quenched. The courage of the savage warrior had given 
way before the chivalry of the humaner soldier. The 
dominion of superstition, too, had been broken, but a rigid 
utilitarianism had not yet taken place. The spectres of night 
had vanished, but dreams of the wonderful and the lovely 
still hovered around imagination. The earth was not bare, nor 
the heavens empty. The merchant and the money-changer 
began to rule the city ; but Queen Mab was not yet dethroned. 
She had yet her fairy empire in the green-wood shade ; she 
had yet her dancing in the moonht glen. The practical had 
not yet banished the romantic, and the soul had her phi- 
losophy, as well as the senses. Columbus had opened new 
worlds, and the old world hailed him as the Moses of the 
seas. Dreams of sunny regions ; of Edens in the deserts; of 
El Doradoes in the treadless hills, wafted longing fancies from 
olden homes, and thoughts flew fast and far on the crest of 
the wave and the wing of the wind. Learning started from 
leaden sleep to earnest life. Philosophy poured forth her 
eloquent wisdom ; and the thoughtful hstened with en- 
raptured ear. Poetry was filhug the earth with her music ; 



18 Giles^ Lectures. 

unci Fiction was delighting mankind with rare enchantment; 
and Eeligion was busying all brains Avith her solemn and 
profound discoursing. Bacon was sounding the depths of 
human intellect, and calling from their silence the energies of 
endless progression. Shakespeare was shaping, to endiu'ing 
beauty, those wondrous creations which embody the univer- 
sal life of man. Cervantes, the glorious Spaniard, in soul a 
brother to the glorious Briton, had sent forth among men's 
fancies, Don Quixotte and Sancha Panza ; the high-dream- 
ing knight, and the low-thinking squire ; the grave in com- 
pany with the grotesque, a goodly image of humanity for 
everlasting laughter and everlasting love. Luther had 
arisen, awful and gigantic, half the earth his platform, and 
millions of excited men his audience. Liberty had began 
to know her rights, and was gathering courage to maintain 
them. Traditional claims had already lost in the contest 
against natural justice. Priests and princes had ceased to 
be gods, and the people were fast rising to be men. Com- 
merce had enlarged her boundaries ; wealth had increased 
its enterprise ; independence had gi'own with industry. The 
course of freedom went nobly onward. Britain had humbled 
Spain ; and Holland, after one of the most heroic struggles 
in the history of patriotism, had cast off the Spanish yoke. 
While Europe was thus rejoicing in spreading grandeur, 
the fairest island on its western border, with every means 
of prosperity and glory, lay hke a ruin at moonUght, -vVhere 
pirates had assembled to divide their plunder in blasphemy 
and in blood. 

James of Scotland, the successor of his mother's slayer, 
treated unfortunate Ireland with no gentler policy. "Without 
accusation of sedition or rebellion, he alienated six counties 
from their owners, and colonized them with his country- 
men. The outcasts wandered on theii* own soil, as strangers 
and as vatrabouds. Fearful deeds were done in revenfro 



spirit of Irish History. 19 

and retribution during the terrible insurrection of 1641, 
which occurred in the reign of this man's son. Deadly 
passions mingled together in the strife, as elements in the 
hurricane ; and the blood of Eeformer and the blood of 
Romanist, swelled the common torrent. England, too, became 
convulsed with trouble. Charles endeavored to ingratiate 
the Irish, and to a considerable extent he succeeded. But, 
their assistance availed the unhappy monarch nothing ; and 
ere his blood was well nigh clotted on the block, they had 
Cromwell of the iron hand, dealing death upon themselves. 

It is not my province, here, even if my power answered to 
the task, to draw a complete moral portrait of Cromwell. I 
am simply to speak of him in relation to Ireland ; and, in 
that relation, he was a steel-hearted exterminator. I have 
no inclination to deny him grandeur, and if I had, the gen- 
eral verdict would stand independently of my inchnation. 
Whether the moralist approve, or whether he condemn, 
the world always enthrones will, and power, and success ; 
and that which it enthrones, it worships. How much in 
Cromwell was the honesty of a patriot, how much was the 
policy of a designer ; how much was purity, how much was 
ambition, which so predominated, the evil or the good, as 
to constitute his character ; this will probably be decided in 
opposite directions by opposite i)arties to the end of history. 
Whatever be the decision on the man, measured as a whole, 
the facts of his career in Ireland show him to have been 
most cruel and most sanguinary. 

Nor are these facts inconsistent with our general idea of 
the dictator's character. A dark compound of the daring 
soldier and the religious zealot, uniting in one spirit the 
austerest attributes of each, stern in purpose, and rapid in 
execution, he was the man for a mission of destruction. The 
Irish, on many accounts, were peculiarly hateful to him 
They were the adherents of defeated royalty. They were not 



20 Giles^ Lectures. 

simply prelatists, which were in itself offensive ; but they 
were papists, and that was hideous iniquity. They were not 
only aliens, they were worse than aliens ; they were outcasts, 
the doomed of prophecy, the sealed of Antichrist. They 
were the modern Canaanites, and he was the modern Joshua, 
the anointed of the Lord, to deal judgment on the reprobate ; 
and judgment he dealt with vengeance, with vengeance that 
knew no touch of mercy. His track in Ireland may be fol- 
lowed over ruins which yet seem fresh. "We can trace him 
as we do a ravenous animal, by the blotches where he lay to 
rest, or by the bloody fragments where he tore his prey. 
The Irish peasantry still speak of this man with those vivid 
impressions, which, of all passions, terror alone can leave. 
They allude to him in the living phraseology, which only that 
can prompt which moves us nearly, and, therefore, moves 
us strongly ; they allude to him, not as if he were a shadow 
in the dimness of two centuries, but as if he were an agent 
of recent days. Stop, as you pass a laborer on the road- 
side in Ireland ; ask him to tell you of the ruin before you 
on the hill. You will hear him describe it in language far 
more poetical and far more picturesque than I can copy, but 
somewhat in manner such as this : " Och, sure, that's the 
castle o' the Cogans, that Cromwell, the blackguard, took 
away from them. But maybe they did'nt fight, while fightin' 
was in them, the poor fellows ; barrin' there's no strivin' 
agin the devil, the Lord presarve us, and everybody knows 
that Cromwell, bad win to him, was hand and glove wid the 
ould boy ; musha, faix he was, as sure as there's fish in the 
say, or pigs in Connaught. There's the hill where the wag- 
abond planted his cannon. There's the farm which the 
Blaneys got for sellin' the Pass, the white-livered thraitors ; 
there's the brache which he made in the walls, where brave 
Square Cogan — a bed in heaven to his soul — was killed, wid 
his six fine darlant sons, as strappin' boys as you'd meet in 



Spirit of Irish History. 21 

a long summer's day. Och, wirra, wirra, struli ; bud Cogan 
was a man it would do your heart good to see ; my vardi av, 
it wouldn't keep the frosht out of your stomach the blackest 
day in winther ; full and plinty were in his house, and the 
poor never went impty from his door ; as I heard my grand- 
mother say, that heard it from her grandmother, that, be the 
same token, was Cogan's cousin. Och, bud, with fair fighting, 
Cogan didn't fear the face of man, and, sure enough, when 
Cromwell commanded him to surrender, he tould infarnal 
coppernose, he'd ate his boots first ; throth he would, and 
his stockings after, av there was the laste use -in it ; bud the 
man's not born'd of woman, that can stand against a whelp 
of hell ; and, av ould Nick iver had a son, my word for it 
bud his name was OHver." 

The cause of the Stuart, that family so faithless to their 
friends, and so fatal to themselves, next made Ireland the 
battle-ground of faction. Again her green hills were sown 
with blood ; again her pleasant valleys were scorched with 
famine. The infatuated Catholics joined that wretched im- 
becile, James the Second, while the Protestants, with a wiser 
policy, gathered to the standard of William the Dutchman, 
the son-in-law of James, and his opponent. The fortunes of 
James received their first blow at the siege of Derry in the 
north ; were staggered at the battle of the Boyne, midway 
in the kingdom ; and were fatally decided at the taking of 
Limerick in the south. The fall of Limerick closed the war. 
James had fled ; and WilHam remained the victor. Limer- 
ick did not go out of the contest ignominiously. Even the 
women threw themselves into the breach, and for that time 
saved the city ; nor did the city, itself, surrender, but on 
terms which comprehended the whole of Ireland. Limerick 
capitulated on the part of aU the Irish Catholics. The 
capitulation was but signed, when a large French fleet ap- 
peared in the river, with extensive supplies and numerous 



22 Giles' Lectures. 

reinforcements. But with the good faith of honorable men, 
fifteen thousand laid down their arms, and were true to their 
engagements. The terms of this treaty were fair and advan- 
tageous. They secured to the Cathohcs the rights of proj?- 
erty, of liberty, and of conscience, and all things seemed to 
augur well for peace, for unity, and for happiness. 

Had the victors been merciful with power, and generous 
with success, had they been just, nay, had they been wisely 
politic, Ireland might have been tranquillized, and her pros- 
perity might have commenced. But it was an age of faction, 
and faction was true to its vilest instincts. The legislation 
that followed this event, was intensely exclusive, and it was 
exclusively Protestant. The whole power of the country was 
in the hands of a Protestant aristocracy. The first action, 
then, of the Parliament in Ireland, after the reduction of 
Limerick, was to annul its treaty, a treaty as solemn as any 
that history records ; a treaty made in the face of armies, 
and which pledged the faith of nations. And, not only that, 
but it was followed by a code of laws, which would have 
been a shame upon the reign of Nero ; a code of laws which 
made, at one time, the Catholic religion a capital offence ; 
and which, when greatly mitigated, denied to Catholics the 
means of education, the claims of property, and the rights 
of citizens. Legislation like this was, of course, disastrous. 
Strange, indeed, if it were not. If it were not, history 
were a lie, and all experience a dream ; if it were not, human 
nature were, itself, a confounding delusion. It was disas- 
trous to the Protestant religion, which it pretended to sup- 
port ; it was disastrous to the interests of England, which it 
promised to maintain ; it was disastrous, also, to the un- 
hai^py people, whose energies it crushed ; but, that the law 
of compensation should not utterly fail — that some evidence 
should be given to earth, that even on earth crime does not 
go unpunislied — it was disastrous to its enactors. 



Spirit of Irish History. 23 

Man cau never separate himself from his fellows. He can 
never make their evil his good. The darkness which he 
draws upon his country, vdH overshadow his own home ; 
and the misery which he prepares for his neighbor, will be 
misery for himself. So it was with the authors of these evil 
laws ; so it ever must be, while moral right binds actions 
to appropriate consequences, while a God of eternal justice 
governs the world by principles which are as immutable as 
they are holy. The possessions which rapine had acquired, 
and which wrong controlled, did not give such return as the 
covetous heart desired. By confiscation, by penalties, by all 
modes of harsh restriction, the kingdom Avas drained of its 
native intelhgence and native strength. Wealth of senti- 
ment, wealth of capital, wealth of skill, wealth of industry, 
wealth of muscle, were driven from the country, or paralyzed 
within it. The high chivalry w^hicli generous treatment 
would have retained, directed foreign courts, commanded 
foreign ai-mies ; while a hardy yeomanry that indulgence 
could have made loyal forever, carried bravery to the ranks 
of England's enemies, and labor to their markets. 

And, observe with what a solemn retribution the conse- 
quences return upon the class who enacted or favored this 
kind of legislation. The laws against Catholics pressed upon 
the whole tenantry of Ireland, for the whole tenantry of Ire- 
land were, and are Catholic. The laws, therefore, against 
the Catholics, were so many enactments against the interests 
of the landlords themselves ; were, in fact, so many tariffs 
against their wealth. Uncertainty of title disturbed industry; 
the soil withered under imperfect cultivation ; absenteeism 
of proprietors left the laborers without protection, and the 
owners without profit. Only meagre harvests were gathered 
from exhausted fields. Trade had no scope in impoverished 
cities ; the peasantry were starving, and the gentry were 
poor. This gentry, poor, but luxurious, lived upon estates 



24 Giles' Lectures. 

that were miserabl}' deteriorated, as if tliey were in pristine 
freshness ; and doing nothing to enrich the soil, they would 
liave fi'om it the utmost rents ; and thence they became 
indebted, and thence they became embarrassed. To dig 
they were not able, but to beg they were not ashamed. 
They begged pensions, places, sinecures ; and no work was 
so unjust or mean, which they were not willing to do for 
government, if government was liberal enough in patronage. 
Gaming, gormandizing, profanity, licentiousness, became 
aristocratic distinctions. Honor there was to kill, but not 
honesty to pa}"" ; and the man who shot his friend for an 
inadvertent word, could bear, if anything was to be gained by 
it, the reiterated insolence of a viceroy's menial. The wages 
being ready, here was the hireling ; and the slave, in his 
turn, became the tyrant. The self-respect which he lost as a 
time-server, ho sought, after the manner of all low natures, 
to regain as an op]oressor ; and the hardship of the forlorn 
serf paid for the mortification of the suppliant ofiicial. 
These men who, in element and charitable duties, might 
have been as gods, enjoying and dispensing blessings, taking 
the evil way of persecution, found their due reward in being 
despised by those whom they served, and in being detested 
by those whom they governed. 

If any one shall think this tone exaggerated, then I ask 
him to look at the Memoirs of Sir Jonah Barrington, in 
which he may study, at his leisure, the manners of the Irish 
gentlemen in the last century ; the picture, too, is painted 
by one of themselves ; by one who shared all their partial- 
ities for combat and for claret, for pensions and for place. 

Events rapidly proceeded to bring relief to Ireland, and 
partially to bring fi'eedom. CornwaUis was captured at 
Yorktown, and America sprung into her glory fi'om a prov- 
ince to a nation. The volunteers arose in Ireland, and forty 
thousand, with arms in theu' hands, demanded independ- 



Spirit of Irish History. 25 

euce. Henry Grattan gave their passions sublime expres- 
sion. Corruption was startled from the apathy of indulgence, 
and the guilty wei'e struck with fear as with the voice of a 
prophet. Grattan called Ireland up fi*om the dust of most 
sei-vile degradation. He put brave words into her mouth, 
and a new hope into her heart ; and although upon his own 
lips the words afterwards sunk into complaint, and the 
hope withered to despondency, he was not the less heroic on 
that account. Speaking at one time of Ireland, he asserts 
that she is a nation. S^jeaking of her again, he says, " I sat 
by her cradle, I followed her hearse ; " but always he was 
her champion, and he was her friend. Lowly as she was 
Avhen he entered upon life, he determined that she should 
not so remain. He caused her to arise, aug-ust and majestic, 
before her tyrants, bound as she was with their sackcloth. 
He called on her to assume her might, and taught her the 
strength that yet slumbered in her breast. He was the 
fearless accuser of her enemies. He dragged the villains 
into open light, that trampled on her rights, and that bat- 
tened on her miseries. He loved her with an enthusiasm 
that only death could quench. She was the passion of his 
soul, the devotion of his life. Mighty in his eloquence, ho 
was yet mightier in his patriotism. 

The cfi'ects of his eloquence are left in the history of his 
country ; and in me it would be vain, as it would be imper- 
tinent, to describe, in my feeble words, the power of such 
speech as his — speech that nxade the proudest quail — speech 
that shivered and prostrated the most able and the most 
iniquitous faction, which personal selfishness and political 
corruption ever banded together in gainful wickedness. 
Rapid, intense, scornful, indignant, his spirit was formed for 
contest. Fiery in passion, and brilliant in intellect, his 
antithetic language shot forth as Hghtning, as beautiful and 
as fatal. Of stern and stoic grandeur, he was the Ileformer 



26 Oiks' Lectures. 

who was wanted among evil, exalted, and educated men. He 
was not of the gladsome fancy, which gathers flowers and 
weaves a garland ; he was of the impetuous temper which 
rises upon the storm, and plays among the clouds. "With 
individuals, he may not always have been in the right, and 
with his country he was never in the wrong. 

The French Revolution came, then, to rock political 
Europe with its tremendous earthquake. Hoary dynasties 
rocked on their foundations. Decrepid legitimacy trembled 
and looked aghast. The terrible insurrection of 1798 
brought fresh desolation to Ireland. Some interludes of 
jail and gibbet being gone through, an afterpiece was added 
to this horrible drama in 1830, signalized by the death of 
Lord Kilwarden, and by the execution of the noble-hearted 
Emmett. You all know the story of his heroism and his 
love ; you know how he fell in the prime of a most manly 
nature ; you know how a true and beautiful spirit laid her 
broken heart upon his grave. Your own Washington Irving 
has told you this in words of rainbow light ; your own 
Irving, whose liberal geniiis loves the good of every land ; 
and when he gives their annals, none can add beauty to 
the record. You have the ashes of an exiled Emmett 
among you ; shrouded on the soil of liberty, he lies in sacred 
sleep. You gave him in life a freeman's home ; in death 
you have given him a patriot's grave. 

Among the mighty spirits which have been lights to Ire- 
land, I will mention one who, in this sad period, was pre- 
eminent. I allude to Curran, the glory of the Irish bar. 
Most exalted in his oratory, and most generous in his use 
of it, he was ever what the true man would wish to be, if 
his power enabled him — the defender of liberty, the champion 
of the wronged. With a moral intellect of the widest grasp, 
he had an imagination of subtle delicacy and of gorgeous 
wealth ; and this intellect, iiiipulaivc with a superhiunan 



spirit of Irish History. 27 

fervor, and this imagination, lyrical as the very soul of 
poetry, became, iu their union, an enthusiasm that dared the 
loftiest heights and gained them. But, though soaring, it 
was not solitary. If it mounted upward to the skies, it was 
borne thither on the aspirations of all generous interests. 
It carried others to its own proud climbings ; and they, for 
the moment, transported from the lower earth, burned with 
its electric fire, and became godlike in its communicated 
lustre. How various is the eloquence in which that opulent 
spirit found expression. It is wit, ready and exhaustless ; 
piercing as the pointed steel, or lambent as a ray of light ; 
now playful as a gleeful child, and then mischievous as a 
merry fiend. It is humor, in all queer analogies, in all 
shapes of oddity, in all hghts and hues of fantasy. It is 
sarcasm, which lashes its victim to despair. It is pathos, 
which wrings the heart ; which touches it in every nerve 
where agony is borne ; which searches it in every fold where 
the smallest drop of grief can lie concealed. It is denun- 
ciation. And here he is greatest of all. How does he exhibit 
the wrong-doer ! How does he show the transgressor his 
ways! How does he display the tortures of an accusing 
conscience, the sickness of a guilty soul, the apathy of habit, 
the damnation of remorse ! 

And no matter who the wrong-doer is, let him tremble if 
Curran is to paint his deeds. Proud he may be in titles, 
boundless in wealth, hardened in the bronze of fashion ; if he 
is human, the orator's words shall transfix him ; wherever 
feeling has a sense, a barb shall rankle ; and for the time, at 
least he shall stand before the world, naked, bleeding, shiver- 
ing, and despised— to his species a thing of scorn, and to 
himself a thing of shame. Ofiice shall no more protect him 
than rank. Is he a judge, who sullies the purity of the 
bench with the malice of a partisan ? His ermine shall not 
guard him from the advocate's indiguation ; and the tribunal 



28 Gilcs^ Lectures. 

which he disgraces shall, in its very loftiness, but make his 
ignominy the more conspicuous. Neither shall a villain find 
a shield in the baseness of his work or the obscurity of his 
condition. Is he a spy, Avhom government pays for perjury, 
the hireling violator of human faith and human nature — a 
wretch that panders for the gallows, and steeps his feet in 
widows' and in orphans' tears? Cased and coated as his 
heart may be in adamant, callous as may be his brutish face, 
stolid as may be his demon-soul, Curran could cleave the 
armor of his wickedness, and shake his miscreant spirit with 
fear, when it had lost even the memory of a virtue. 

It is not, however, the power of Curran's eloquence, but 
the purpose of it, which has relation to this lecture. It was 
for the weak against the strong. Curran lived in times 
which tried men's souls, and many souls there were Avhich 
did not stand the trial. Some, with coward fear, sank before 
the storm of power ; and others, with selfish pliancy, dis- 
solved in the sunshine of patronage. But Curran was brave 
as he was incorruptible. In 1798, he labored with a martyi-'s 
patience, and with a hero's courage. He pleaded under the 
shadow of the scaii'old. He defended one client over the 
dead body of another ; and while the victim is expiring on 
the gallows, for whom yesterday he struggled, with no hope 
to cheer his labor, he struggles as manfully to-daj'- for one 
who will be the victim of to-morrow. He was upright, when 
honor was rebellion ; he was true, when integrity was trea- 
son ; he stood by the accused and the doomed, when to pity 
was to participate ; and he was loyal to liberty, when even 
to name her was almost to die. 

The year 1829 saw the Cathohc emancipated, and now ho 
stands with other JBritish subjects, in equality of privilege 
and equality of grievance. The later history of Ireland has 
had three grand epochs, and in each has had a man fashioned 
for the time. In 1781, the Parliament of Ireland contended 



Spirit of Irish Hi at or y. 29 

for independence ; then there arose the majestic spirit of 
immortal Grattan ; all that was claimed, he asserted, and 
all that he asserted, he achieved. In 1798, the liberty of the 
citizens was set at nought ; the impetuous voice of Curran 
arose above the storm, and if it was not able to qiiell 
injustice, it bore witness to the right. In 1829, six mill- 
ions were emancipated, and with that sublime event the 
name of O'Connell is forever associated. But, not with 
that year or that event alone, the name of O'Connell is con- 
nected with the indefatigable struggle of half a century ; 
it is not only sacred in the liberty of his country, but in 
the liberty of man ; and the famo of it will become wider 
and brighter, as freedom covers the earth, and a slave is 
not known in the world. 

The historical aspect of our country presents us with 
nothing but disunion and mismanagement ; and the social 
to which we must now briefly refer, presents us with noth- 
ing better. We observe in the structure of Irish society, 
not merely that the elements of it are fragmentary, but 
antagonistic. There is, for instance, little of a native 
aristocracy ; and there is no country on the earth which 
so respects and reverences its mighty names. The old 
families, Celtic and Saxon, were successively' stripped of 
their estates. It was asserted by Chancellor Fitzgibbon 
that the island had changed owners three times in a cen- 
tury. The aristocracy in Ireland have, therefore, remained 
away from the people. Their existence is entirely a separate 
one ; their education is distinct ; their feehngs are anti- 
national ; their sympathies are foreign ; they are aliens 
after two centuries of possession. No people are more 
easily governed than the Irish through their imagination 
and affections. Appeal successfully to these faculties, and 
you may rule them as you please. If you would have 
power with the Enghsh, appeal to their interest ; show 



30 Giles' Lectures. 

to tliem that you can lessen their taxes, and that yon can 
increase their loaf. If you would gain power with the 
Irish, appeal to their sentiments ; show them that yoa 
would bx'ing back to Ireland, the glory that has departed ; 
that you would re-string their national Harp, and re-kindle 
her national oratory ; that you would re-build the Halls 
of Tara, and flood them with the music of her bards ; that 
you would re-open the doors of her senate, and lill its 
courts with the eloquence of her statesmen. 

But, to understand a people, you must live with them ; 
nay, you must have within you the hfe of their life ; and 
without this understanding of a people, you will vainly 
try to work on theu' sentiments. You can work on their 
sentiments only by sympathy. You must freely appreciate 
their virtues ; you must have that also in you, which can 
penetrate the spirit even of their vices. Herein was the 
power of O'Conncll. It was not all in the genius of the 
man ; nor was it all in the wrongs of the government. 
Much of the secret lay in the profound insight which ho 
ever had of the character of the people ; the complete 
identification of his nature with theirs. His words were 
resistless, for they were the echoes of the hearts around 
him, and with the beatings of these hearts, his own heart 
kept time. The Irish aristocrat has no such unity with 
the people ; naj, he has scarcely an external acquaintance 
with them. He has not the affection of a native, and he 
wants the impartiality of a stranger. His life is a sort of 
penance for his birth. He would not be an Irishman, 
and he cannot be an Englishman. He looks splenetically 
across the channel, and mourns that his trooper-ancestor 
gave him any thing in Ireland but its acres. He then 
turns a sullen gaze upon the soil on which he has had 
the misfortune to be born, and which has had the still 
greater misfortune to bear him. He is to his tenantry 



Spirit of Irish History. 3] 

not so much a protector as a superior ; a claimant rather 
than a patron ; an exactor more than an improver ; always 
a receiver, and seldom a bestower. 

This opposition of interior feeling between the higher 
and lower classes in Ireland, is lamentably exemplified by 
a correspondiug contrast of external circumstances. Irish 
society is a living antithesis, of which the peer and the 
l^easant are no fanciful extremes. The peasant shows 
what privations hfe can endure ; the peei", with what 
indulgence it can become a burden. The peasant works, 
but does not eat ; the peer cats, but does not work. The 
food of the peasant is, also, the food of the brutes ; that 
of the peer were a banquet for the gods. The peasant 
so^YS, and reaps, and gathers into barns, and carries the 
crop to market, and carries nothing home ; the peer sows 
not, reaps not, gathers not into barns, carries not the crop 
to market, and has all the gain without even the trouble 
of carrying it home. It makes some difference to the 
peer whether his territory is fertile or barren ; for he has 
what ever it produces ; it makes none to the peasant, 
for small crop or abundant, his lot is still the same, to 
toil and to starve. The manor houses of the Irish 
gentry are situated in the midst of extensive domains, 
surrounded by lofty walls, and guarded by surly gate- 
keepers. The finest of these places are often girded by 
deserts of the most squalid misery. The owners are in 
them on rare occasions, and then, it is to revel in the 
midst of want. 

Suppose yourself a guest on one of these occasions. Look 
around you on the scene ! The princely park without, and 
the ornamented halls within ; slope, woodland, garden, hill, 
dale, and river, glowing in the outward prospect ; the inward 
view, that of a kingly residence furnished for every refined 
desire ; adorned with mirrors, statues, pictures, re]->lonished 



82 Giles' Lectures. 

with whatever can dehght the fancy or feast the senses. 
Think, then, of a tenant peasantry, physically more deplor- 
able than the serfs of Turkey' ; and when you have thus 
thought, look calmly on the assembly before you. Here, 
gathered at joyous night, is a throng of the noble and 
the fair ; men of gallant bearing, and women of surpass- 
ing beauty. Lights stream over decorations which almost 
transcend what Eastern story feigned of Eastern magic ; 
music floats upon the perfumed au*, and grace rules the 
mazes of the dance. When you recollect the haggard 
country through which yoxi passed, to arrive at such a 
mansion ; when you recollect the hovels that afflicted you 
on the way, the sad faces that stared you as you went along, 
that constantly subdued your reveries to grief ; when you 
recollect the fever and the hunger, that, as you traveled by 
then, appalled your very soul ; all that you see in this abode 
of grandeur appears unnatural ; it seems a brilliant, and 
yet an agonizing vision ; an illusion by some evil genius, 
powerful to delight, terrible to destroy. You cannot recon- 
cile it with your ordinary associations — with your sentiments 
of moral harmony ; it is incongruous ; a rejoicing in an 
hospital, a feast in a famine-ship, a dance in a charnel-house, 
a bridal in a sepulchre ; your heart becomes convulsed, your 
head giddy, your imagination confused and sick. You look 
upon a social class that bewilders you, and you turn from 
the whole with loathing and disgust. 

The social system in Ii-eland is disjointed and defective. 
The great proprietors are absentees, and the small ones are 
unpoverished. Another decisive evil in the social state of 
Ireland is, the want of due gradation. "Where there is not 
general equahty, there ought to be successive ranks. But 
society in Ireland exists only in extremes. The two main 
divisions of it are the owners of the soil, and its occu- 
piers ; and between these there seems a gulf, which one 



Spirit of Irish History. 33 

cannot pass to companion with the other. To fill up 
this wide interval, there is Avanted an active and enter- 
prising middle class. Except in the learned professions, 
social eminence in Ireland belongs only to the owner- 
ship of land. Money in Ireland has not accumulated into 
capital ; industry has not risen to ambition ; and, thence, 
wliile in England men climb from labor to aristocracy, in 
Ireland men descend from aristocracy to labor. 

But the most grievous need of Ii*eland is the want of 
variety in occupation. Externally, Ireland is finely situ- 
ated for commerce ; internally, she is admirably consti- 
tuted for manufactures. Commerce and manufactures would 
not only train the people to skill and independence, but 
relieve the soil from the pressure of an excessive jDopu- 
lation. The soil is the only source of life, and out of this 
fact come many evils ; one of the worst is that of extreme 
competition. Evei-y vacant sj)ot becomes an object of 
deadly strife. It is generally given to that person who 
offers the highest price and shouts the loudest promise. 
He soon finds out in his despair that he has undertaken 
too much. The landlord has spent no capital on it ; the 
tenant has none to spend ; and of the produce which is 
torn from its savage nakedness, the bulk goes to the 
absent proprietor and to the Estabhshed Church. The soil 
deteriorates ; the landlord will not lower his demands ; 
the tenant cannot pay them, and he is ejected. The land- 
lord gives his place to another, and the ruined tenant 
knows not where to find a shelter. Though law has driven 
him out from his familiar hearth, nature compels him 
to return. He will prowl around the miserable abode that 
gave his poverty a refuge — the hut that gave his little ones 
a home — the roof that shielded the mother of his children. 
He cannot reason ; his blood rushes back to its fountains ; 
his whole nature is excited ; his brain is convulsed in de- 



34 Giks^ Lectures. 

lirium ; he is mad in his houseless distraction ; and in his 
madness, he slays, perhaps, his blameless successor. His 
former landlord is, possibly', a magistrate. This magistrate 
hands him to the constable ; the constable delivers him to 
the judge ; after due forms of trial, the judge consigns him 
to the executioner ; and the executioner closes the tragedy. 
This is but one of a hundred, that vary little in plot or 
incident. The scaflfold is the stage, with which, as yet, 
Iri'lund has been the best acquainted ; and on that she 
has witnessed many a terrible drama — black, silent, bloody, 
and monstrous ! 

Who does not see in these circumstances, rudely as I 
have described them, the soux'ces of enormous evils ? Pas- 
sions, the deepest and most lasting, were kindled and kept 
burning by crushing men upon their own soil — by irritat- 
ing them in those sentiments that all but the basest hold 
in reverence. Education was not only withheld, but pun- 
ished ; trade was not advanced, but restricted ; home in- 
dustry was suppressed, and foreign commerce was forbid- 
den ; and yet, men are now wondering that this work of 
folly and of guilt should still be felt. Why, it is not greatly 
over half a century since any change for the better even 
began. But the effects of such a Avork does not pass away 
in fifty 3'ears. 

What other eifects than those which we have seen could 
be expected? Discontent, that outlives the provocation ; 
anger, that survives the wrong ; disorganization, that fol- 
lows servitude and misrule ; ignorance, deep and wide- 
spread, that bad legislation had long compelled, and that 
the best cannot hastily remove ; idleness, that law made 
a habit or a necessitj- ; poverty, coming out of idleness ; 
crime and misery-, issuing from both — a complication of en- 
tangled dilHculties that shakes the hope of the philanthro- 
pist, and that balHes the wisdcnn of the statesman. 



Spirit of Irish Ili.s'lori/. 35 

But tlio evils iiidicato their own remedies ; and it is en- 
couraging to see, in the progress of recent events, that 
national instincts are taking the direction that will grad- 
ually ameliorate national calamities. The Irish people must 
be respected ; and they mxist be practically respected ; they 
must have their duo share in the legislation of the empire, 
and they must bo fully represented, according to their 
numbers, their power, and their interests. There must 
grow up in Ireland, too, a social unity. Men of the same 
atmosphere must learn to love, and not to hate each other ; 
they must join heart and liand, to promote the good of 
their common country ; they must have hope for what is to 
come ; they must have pardon for what is jiast. The law 
of tenure must bo changed ; the tenant must bo protected. 
The landlord shall not bo denied his rights ; but he must 
be made to feel his duties. If ho will not bo true to his 
obligations, like all criminals, he ought to meet with punish- 
ment ; and the punishment ho could most be made to feel, 
would be punishment on his purse. This, when written, 
was prophesy; much of it is now history; and the landlords 
have so contrived matters as to prepare the punishment 
for themselves. Relieve the land of the horrible pressure 
that is on it ; call in the amount of stalwart nuiscle that 
withers away in idleness to healthy manufactures ; let the 
young men and maidens that wander over earth for leave 
to toil have but that liberty given them x\i)on their own 
green island, and I shall challenge the world to show 
a happier or a handsomer race — men more generous, or 
women more lovely. 

Oh that all classes and all creeds would unite in a broad 
and generous sentiment of nationality ; not a nationality 
of vanity and prejudice, but a nationality of brotherhood 
and peace. This would bo for Ireland the day of her 
regeneration. To tlio eye, sho is fair, indecnl, among the 



86 (jriles^ Lectures. 

nations ; but to the heart, her beauty has been covered with 
sadness. Her fields are hixuriant, and her hills are green ; 
yet the lot of her children has been in tears and blood. 
History, whose work at best is but melancholy, has writ- 
ten her story in despair. Hunger has lingered in her 
valleys ; sickness in her dwellings ; sin and madness in 
her secret places. Nature has given her a great largeness 
of bounty. Cattle cover her plains ; the horn of plenty 
has been emptied on her vales ; but sorrow and a curse 
have rained a blight on all. The airs of heaven blow upon 
her freshly ; but they swell no sails, except those Avhich 
are to bear her children into exile. The glorious sea 
girds her about ; but it washes the shores of solitary 
harbors, and dashes an unloaded wave upon a virgin sand. 
A race of no mean capacities have lived in huts unworthy 
of the savage, and upon food almost too wretched for the 
brutes. 

Ought it to be thus ? Is this the design of nature ? Is 
this the order of Providence ? Is this a fatal and perpetual 
necessity ? No, no, it is against the design of nature ; it 
reverses the order of Providence ; and the only necessity 
that belongs to it, is that which springs from misrule, 
mismanagement, and disunion. Lot there bo but a united 
people, and it cannot bo longer thus ; let divisions bo 
abolished by a holy love of country, combined interests 
and combined activity will issue in general prosperity ; let 
party names be lost in Irishman, and Irishman be a word 
for patriot ; then, the sun of a new era will bathe with 
glory " the emerald set in the midst of the sea ;" then will 
the land of a common birth be the land of a common heart ; 
and then, 

" Ilowe'or crowns and coronets bo ront, 
A virtuous populace will riso tlu^ while, 
And stand, a wall of (hv around lli(>ir much-loved isle." 



spirit of Irish History. 37 

The course of these observations had led us along pain- 
ful toi^ics, but we will not leave them in despondency. If 
days which arc gone have left but painful memories, days 
that are to come may cheer us with bright and gracious 
hopes. If a soil the most fertile has borne but a starving 
peasantry ; if noble rivers have flowed unburdened to the 
sea; if capacious harbors have been ruflled by no freighted 
keels ; if mines of wealth have slumbered untouched in the 
sleeping earth ; still, I do not despair for my country. The 
soil is there yet in its beauty, and its children vnay yet live 
upon its fullness ; the rivers are yet majestic, and will not 
always be a solitude ; the broad and sheltered bay that 
now mirrors but the mountains and the heavens, may yet 
reflect the snowy drapery of many a gallant ship ; and the 
hills on which now the ragged and dejected shepherd wan- 
ders, may j'et yield up their treasures to the light. Nature 
is not dead ; nature is not dead in the works of creation or 
in the soul of man ; nature is not dead, but ever in its 
generous beauty covers and supports us. No foolish pas- 
sions can dry up the kindly heart of earth, or consume the 
fatness of the clouds, or shut out the glory of the skies. 
Nature yet survives — survives in her limitless bounty — sur- 
vives in her eternal youth ; and the people, though im- 
poverished, are not destroyed. No wrongs have been able 
to crush them ; no wars to render them inhuman. From 
every savage influence they have come forth — not indeed 
uninjured, but yet not deeply degraded, nor ruthlessly de- 
praved. From the worst experience in the history of 
nations they have saved elements of excellence that may 
be shaped into the noblest civiHzation. From a long and 
dreary night of bondage they have escaped with the vivid 
intellect, the cheerful temper, the affectionate spirit, the 
earnest, the hopeful enthusiasm that springs clastic IVom 
every sorrow. 



38 Gilrs^ Lectures. 

The hour now seems dark in Ireland, but the light is 
not quenched ; it is only for a season obscured. The cloud 
is thick and broad ; it rests heavily over the shivering 
millions ; it is most dreary, and it seems tilled with threaten- 
ings ; but the moveless sun is shining tranquilly above it 
in the benignant and the everlasting heavens. The cloud 
may break in tempest ; but stillness and beauty will come 
when the hurricane has spent its strength and the storm 
has passed away. But no tempest will, possibly, come at 
all. The cloud may dissolve in rain ; it may give freshness 
where it had only given gloom, and cool the ardor of the 
beams which it had excluded. Dark skies bring lightning ; 
lightning brings the shower ; then comes the sunshine on 
the grass, and all the tields are sparkhng with glory and 
with gems. 

Let mo so think of the moral atmosphere that now hangs 
around and over Ireland. It is not to continue. God is 
in his universe, and guides the nations in their way. "We 
will hold to our goodly trust ; and in the strength of that 
earnest trust we will firmly believe that He has rich bless- 
ings yet in store for Ireland. "Where often wq can see 
nothing but evil, our gracious Father is preparing good; 
and we will so believe it now for sad, aflUcted, mourning 
Ireland. Oh land of my heart, of my fathers, and my birth ! 
I will ever keep it in my thoughts that God is looking down 
upon you Avitli pity and with grace, and that He will call yon 
lip more brightly from your calamity. The times, indeed, 
seem bad, but suilering will leave its blessing. Plenty will 
come again ; and humility, and gratitude, and mercy, and 
penitent and softened hearts will come along with it. Peace 
will be established ; confidence will come with peace ; capital 
will follow confidence ; employment will increase with capi- 
tal ; education will be desired ; knowledge will be dift'used ; 
and virtiie will grow with knowledge. Yet, even if these 



Spirit of Irish History. 



BO 



lhinj:!fs shoukl not soon bo ; if all that is now anticipated, 
filiould long be hopo deferred, and many a licarfc should 
sicken in waiting for relief ; yet I will not despond, I will 
not despond fiu' Ireland; I will not despond for humanity; 
I will entertain no doubt in the agency which guides the 
world, and no mistrust in the destiny whorouuto the world 
moves. 





IRELAND AND THE IRISH, 

IN 18 48. 

The three journals named below are in opposition to the 
British government in Ireland, but Avith diliereut degrees 
of antagonism. The Tabid is a paper in the interest of the 
Roman Catholic Church, and, though English in its spirit 
and editorship, it sympathizes with the struggles going 
forward in Ireland. • It denounces the Union, it pleads for 
Repeal ; but it does not commit itself to any danger of legal 
prosecution. 

The Nalion is a journal pledged violently to more than 
Repeal — peaceably if possible, forcibly if it must be. It 
contains much spirited writing, and reports of speeches, 
that defy the legal authorities, and despises aU compromise. 
This is the organ of " Young Ireland," and of a portion of 
the physical-force party. Still, though it hints at republi- 
canism, it does not openly avow it. It professes loyalty to 
the imperial crown, but disowns the right of the imperial 
legislature to make laws for Ireland. The real purport of 
its views is, not simply repeal of the Union, but the abso- 
lute nullity of the Union. Meagher is its leading geniiTs. 

21ic Nation was either not strong enough for Mitchel, or 
IMitchel was too strong for The Nation, and so he set up The 
United Irishman. The United Irishman carries the doctrine 
of resistance out in its most logical consistency and to its 



In land iiiid f/ic Tris/i. 4\ 

utmost consequences. It spits upon Uopoal, it cries for 
independence ; it calls not only I'or a Uiitionul pavlianient, 
but for national sovereig-nty. It laughs at the "golden lijdc 
of the crown," and holds no terms with O'Conncll, to whom 
this phrase, wo believe, is attributed. It scouts Victoria, 
and mocks Conciliation Hall with as nuicli scorn as it does 
Conciliation. It demands a republic at any cost; and with 
fierce earnestness it preaches the gospel of the pike. It tells 
the starving masses of Ireland that they cannot bo worse 
oil", and that, with courageous hearts and a strong right 
hand, they Lave the power to be better off. It goes even 
beyond a mere republic. It attacks the present laws and 
distribution of property, reprobates political economy and 
its theories, and insists on a reorganization. The editor, 
John Mitchel, is the son of a Unitarian minister, esteemed 
by all men who knew him while he lived. He closed a good 
life, and a long and useful ministry, a few years ago, in the 
town of Newry, in the North of Ireland. His son, John 
Mitchel, is undoubtedly a 3'oung man of fine talents, ready 
to do, and dare, and die ; and, if we can judge, prepared 
for either fortune— for victory or death, the tribune or the 
scaffold. His eloquence is brief, bold, llery, and (iondeused. 
If Meagher be the Cicero of the Confederates, Mitchel is 
the Demosthenes of the Democrats. The Tablet calls him 
"the Irish Danton," and so far as strong and burning 
words, that neither modify nor compromise, are concerned, 
the designation is not unsuitable ; yet those who know him 
speak of him as singularly gentle in personal temper. 

It is not our design to enter into either the politics or the 
purposes of these journals ; but they suggest some remarks 
on the present condition of Ireland, physical and social. 

" Ireland '' and " Irish " seem very simple terms, yet do 
they stand for very complicated things. Ireland, to an 
American imagination, consists of space extremely limited ; 



42 (riks^ Lectures. 

yet, from its earliest history, that space has been most 
minutely divided. It would not, in mere space, form a 
leading State of this Union, yet it was once an empire, 
comprising kingdoms, princedoms, chieftainries. These 
kingdoms, princedoms, chieftainries had their respective 
customs, laws, prejudices, with the feuds and factions that 
spring from such a constitution. Even now Ireland has 
her provinces, counties, baronies, in the civil arrangement, 
with archdioceses, dioceses, parishes, in the ecclesiastical. 
The Enghsh invaders found Ireland a country of manifold 
partitions, with a people as subdivided as its surface. 

"Irish" is a word of most composite signification also. 
We wonder at the ignorance of writers on this country in 
their strictures on American character. But surely the 
ignorance of our own writers on the character of other 
nations is scarcely less, and much less excusable. We won- 
der that authors of any intelligence should confound, imder 
one general idea, the reckless men of the West with the 
orderly men of the East ; the ardent men of the South 
with the cool men of the North ; the men who hold slaves, 
with pecialiar training as well as peculiar institutions, with 
other men who have no such training and no such institu- 
tions. Yet we are ourselves in much grosser error in our 
popular conception of the Irish. We have, in general, no 
notion of them but as exiles and drudges. " Irish " means 
•with us a class of human beings whose women do our house- 
work, and whose men dig our railroads. 

Judging merely by the senses, we are not much to blame, 
for these are the relations in which, from infancy, we are 
accustomed to know them. We have indeed heard of 
Burke, and Grattan, and Curran, with many other great 
names besides ; we have a sort of persuasion that these 
were Irishmen ; but when we try practically to consider 
them as the compatriots of a mud-covered laborer in tho 



Ireland and the Irish. 43 

bed of a canal, the contrast is too violent, and by no force 
of imagination can we bring such extremes together. We, 
as a people, are intolerant of ragged garments and empty 
paunches. We would replace the rags by decent raiment, 
and we would fill the paunches with wholesome food; but we 
liave only small respect for those who come to us in tatters, 
and who rush to us from famine. We are a people who 
have had no experience in physical tribulations ; and we 
do not understand the virtues or the vices which such 
tribulation can produce. We do not know the fearful 
selfishness which exceeding want may generate ; but neither 
do we know the blessed charities which it may exhibit, the 
holy self-denial which it may manifest. As a consequence, 
the ill-clad and destitute Irishman is repulsive to our habits 
and to our tastes. We confound ill-clothing and destitu- 
tion with ignorance and vice, for thus they are associated 
among ourselves ; and that fancy is a rare one which can 
emancipate itself from the power of habit and the impres- 
sions of experience. The crowds that cross the Atlantic 
to seek a refuge here are, in general, a ragged contrast to 
our own well-covered masses ; and, thus rude in external 
appearance, many find it hard to reach the kindred and im- 
mortal humanity which is so coarsely tabernacled. Many 
of us . only look on the outside ; we do not enter into the 
soul. We observe the ci-ushed animal, but we hold no 
converse with the hidden spirit ; we have abundance of 
pity, but we fail in reverence. 

It is a foolish thing to judge of a building by a brick ; 
but the folly is j^et greater not to examine even the brick. 
Irish society is but very partially represented by the por- 
tions of it that we have the opportunity of seeing. The 
structure of Irish society has been very variously and 
gradually built up, and by materials from a great many 
quarries. First, there was the old Celtic race ; then the 



44 Giks^ Lectures. 

Milesian ; then the Danes ; then the Anglo-NoiTnans and 
Anglo-Saxons ; then the Scottish colonists sent by the first 
James ; then the troopers of Cromwell and the boors of the 
third William. Now each of these successive invasions 
deposited a new element of discord, and stratum was laid 
upon stratum of rebellion and confiscation. Out of rebel- 
lion and confiscation have proceeded perpetual strife and 
hatred. But among the worst results, we must regard that 
condition of things as the most unfortunate which trans- 
ferred the whole soil of the nation to the hands of strangers, 
and which placed over the people an alien and iinsympa- 
thizing aristocracy. We have some observations to make 
on this condition of things as we proceed. The English in 
the beginning found the Irish broken up among themselves 
into conflicting factions. This, too, was unhappy. Had it 
been otherwise — had the Irish been one — had they been con- 
centrated into a national integrity, as the Saxons were when 
William the Conqueror gained the battle of Hastings, then 
either the invaded would have repelled the invader, or one 
would have absorbed or exterminated the other. Neither 
of these results followed; and the strange paradox is accord- 
ingly exhibited in the universe, of a progressive physical 
amalgamation of the bone and sinew of Ireland with the 
bone and sinew of Britain, carrying along with it an un- 
ceasing, an undj-ing hatred of its government. It is there- 
fore very absurd to speak of the Irish as if they were 
a single, simple, primitive, unmixed race. The very con- 
trary is the fact. Perhaps there is not a country on the 
whole earth so limited in its dimensions, so complicated in 
its population ; and this, not onl}' in the elements that stiU 
continue separate, but also in those that have mingled and 
coalesced. 

It has been common to ascribe the agitations and dis- 
orders which so frequently convulse Ireland to the imp a- 



Ireland and the Irish, 45 

tient and turbulent passion of the Celt, to Lis inherent lovo 
of battle and disturbance, to his unruly and rebellious dis- 
position. No position was ever more false than this ; not 
only is it without proof, but against proof. The Celts are 
not especial rebels ; and, indeed, they never have been. 
The districts in Ireland most troublesome to Britain have 
always been those which the British colonized ; and thus it 
has been from the days of Strongbow to those of MitcheL 
The region in Avhich Cromwell found his hardest task, and 
that in which he left the most atrocious memory, was that 
which had its population from English blood. If England 
has done Ireland wrong. Providence has brought a chastis- 
ing retribution on her, by means of her own children. The 
sins of English fathers are not merely visited on their 
children, but through their children the visitation comes. 
The most sanguinary page of Cromwell's campaign in Ire- 
land, is that which opens at Drogheda and concludes in 
Wexford. Likewise in 1798, the counties which earliest 
entered the conflict, and which longest sustained it, were 
those wherein the descendants of the British chielly resided. 
Wexford fought with desperation, and fought to the last ; 
and Vinegar Hill, with its broken Avindmill, remains to this 
hour a memento of courage and a monument of despair. 

Let us now take a rapid survey of the two broad divisions 
of Irish society. We begin with the aristocracy. And by the 
aristocracy we mean, principally, the owners of the soil ; we 
jnean, in general, the landlords and their immediate kindred. 
Most of those who have fortunes sufficiently large live in 
England, or on the Continent, deserting at the same time 
their country and their duties. The greater number have 
inherited their estates by conquest or confiscation ; and 
they have never become native to the land that gives them 
luxury, but that denies life to the wretched men who till 
it. Accident has made them Irish, and their life is a lon'r 



46 Giles' Lectures. 

regret for being so. They scourge the unhappy nation in 
-which they have had the misfortune to be born, and which 
has had the still greater misfortune to bear them. The 
members of this class, who have to stay at home because 
they are not rich enough to go abroad, constitute the local 
magistrates, and fill most of the influential local offices. A 
large majority of the class is utterly bankrupt — insolvent 
over and over. Most of these men have but the name of 
property ; for what are called their estates lie under piles of 
mortgages and incumbrances. Debt has been heaped upon 
debt, by each generation in its turn, so that it would be as 
puzzling to a lawyer to discover the original possession, as 
it would be to a geologist to describe the primitive condition 
of this planet. Entails, and other artificial contrivances, 
have long kept estates in families, and held them from the 
last action of the law on the part of creditors. But even 
if they could be sold, they would afford only a miserable 
percentage on the sums for which they have been, time 
after time, pawned. There is a story of an Irishman who 
traveled over England Avith a pig of peculiar sagacity and 
buoyancy. The pig was lean, lank, and rough ; but she had 
the vigor of a race-horse, and the elasticity of a greyhound. 
Walls she despised, and gates could not confine her. Her 
master, each morning, was a little space on his road, when 
she was after him, and each morning they began a new day 
most lovingly together. Availing himself of the animal's 
excellent qualities, the fellow sold her at every stage of his 
journey, being certain, at each successive sale, that he 
would have her to sell again. The pig which was thus so 
often sold was, probably, not honestly come by at first. 
This elastic animal is no bad representative of landed prop- 
erty in Ireland ; we leave it to the imagination of our 
readers to find out the analogy and to apply it. 

Nature has its laws in society, as irrefragable as those it 



Ireland and the Irish. 47 

has in matter. Not in one case more than in the other can 
there be any pei'manent violation of them. Soon or late, 
they vindicate themselves. A state of things like that which 
"\ve have just described cannot last. It must die of its own 
corruptions, or it must explode by the force of a pressure 
that has reached the limit of enduring capacity. The ances- 
tors of Irish landlords bequeathed them broad domains, 
but with them they bequeathed titles to them that were 
written and sealed with blood, guarded by a system of 
legislation that was shocking to humanity. They be- 
queathed memories of rankling irritation, which the descend- 
ants of the injurers were as unable to forget as the descend- 
ants of the injured ; Avhich the descendants of the injurers 
were more unwilhng to forgive. Wealth that is acquired by 
violence is seldom spent with wisdom. Economy is as much 
the offspring of virtue as of labor. We manage that, and 
that alone, well, which we gain, not simply by toil, but by 
honest toil. Let no body of men imagine that they can 
grow rich by conquest. It is not merely a crime to assume 
such a position, it is a folly, a delusion — it is a blunder. 
The most dearly purchased treasure is that which is 
acquired by the sword. The highest price for land or gold 
is blood. Every nation which has gained either on such 
conditions, has perished by thern; and it deserved to perish. 
The ancestors of the Irish aristocracy, from the Catholic 
Normans to the Puritan Cromwellians, thus obtained their 
property ; they left it to their children, adding to it the 
penal legacy of prodigal extravagance and profligate habits. 

Our description is general. We know that among the 
gentry of Ii-eland there are many and noble exceptions : 
and being exceptions, they have our greater admiration. 
The most common virtues become subhme, when the oppo- 
site vices are all but universal. When neglect and oppres- 
sion of the poor spread over a land, the spots on which they 



48 Giles^ Lectures. 

receive some degree of care and kindness appear as little 
Edens ; but they are Edens in a desert. We speak of the 
Irish gentry as a class ; and as a class neither their origin 
nor training — neither their temper nor circumstances, fit 
them to conciliate, to foster, or to improve the masses that 
surround them. They never had power over the hearts of 
the people ; and that power of coercion which they once 
possessed, they have not ceased to love, though they have 
for ever lost it. "We mean, especially, their monopoly of 
political influence. Their power as proprietors they yet 
hold and love ; they do not fail to use it either, and to use 
it as badly as ever. Becoming, as we have seen, deeper in 
debt with each generation — one anticipating the income of 
the other — their tastes and desires have, in the same order, 
been growing more costly. They may have become more 
refined, but they also have become more expensive. The 
deadly competition for land in Ireland enables them to raise 
rents to the highest sum that human labor can produce, 
and to press down living to the lowest condition that human 
nature can endure. The tenant is cast upon the ragged 
soil, to tear from its bosom payment for his master, and 
starvation for himself. In the latter he always succeeds ; 
and when he fails in the former, the master, by means of 
arrears, holds in his hands the power to expel him. The 
owner spends no capital on the soil ; he builds no houses 
or offices ; he furnishes no implements ; he pursues no ex- 
periments in agriculture ; he does not instruct the tenant, 
either by theory or example ; and when some year worse 
than others leaves the tenant at his mercy, the mercy that 
many a landlord shows is to turn him off, with neither allow- 
ance nor compensation for such improvements as he has 
struggled in his poverty to make. 

We fancy some of our readers complaining about the 
everlasting historical references, to account for the state of 



Ireland and the Irish. 49 

Ireland. "Why, we conceive tliem saj-ing, why this reiter- 
ation of matters that are gone to the grave of centuries, to 
explain what our eyes see and our ears hear ? But they are 
not gone to the grave of centuries ; they were but sown in 
the living soil of centuries, and now they are ripened into a 
heavy harvest of a most black and bitter crop. We cannot 
understand joresent events without understanding their his- 
torical connection, and least of all can we understand those 
of Ireland ; and to us, especially, young among the nations, 
the example of our elders is important. As it is, the lesson 
that history teaches does not seem entirely needless to us. 
Recent as is our independent existence, we have gone far in 
the pathway of the Old World, and, instead of looking to it 
as a beacon, we seem rather to follow it as a star. It is 
more our model than our warning ; we study the lesson the 
wrong way ; and it is well if we do not in that wrong way 
outrun the instruction. We, too, have our oppressions and 
our injustice. Under the very shadow of our Capitol, 
while the welkin rings with gratulations which are to stir 
with joy the heart of France, a mob gathers to crush free 
thought — thought dedicated to the widest liberty and to the 
highest humanity; nay, at the very time th:it shouts of 
execration were sent across the broad Atlantic to blast a 
fallen monarch in his exile, tyrants with hearts harder than 
the hearts of tigers were tearing off their human brothers 
and sisters from the region of their native affections, con- 
signing them to a slaverj^ compared with which their 
former slavery seemed freedom — dead to their agony of 
spirit, chaining them with iron that did not gall half so 
terribly as the iron that had entered into their soul ; and 
all because, prompted by instincts which God and nature 
had implanted, they sought that freedom for which God and 
nature had designed them. What a mockery is this ! 
What right have such men to hoot at Louis Philippe, con- 



50 Giles' Led urea. 

trasted with wliom Louis Philippe is an angel of light? 
What title have such men to vociferate acclamations for 
liberty ? Liberty is but insulted by their praise. We, too, 
seem in a fair way to enthrone the soldier, and to idolize 
the sword ; to give strength the place of virtue, and victory 
the place of right. But let us not be deceived. God is no 
more mocked by nations with impunity than by individuals ; 
and nations, as well as individuals, wiU reap according to 
what they sow. We may despise the lesson of history, but 
we cannot reverse it laws ; and this law is made evident in 
the records of aU ages. Wrong and right make no ac- 
count of time; they are certain and eternal : their conse- 
quences may not be instantly seen, but they are not lost ; 
nay, they do not even linger. 

There is but one step from the aristocracy to the peasan- 
try in Ireland, and that step is over a fearful precipice into 
an abyss of indescribable, of unimaginable desolation. 
There are but few intermediate grades to break the view, 
or to soften the contrast ; it is a yawning gulf, exposed in 
all its horrors, from which the gazer shrinks back afiVighted, 
with a reeling head and with quivering nerves. Yet must 
we, however loath, ask our readers to lean with us for a 
moment over it. 

The physical state of the Irish peasantry did not, in past 
times, seem capable of being lower than it was. Even then 
it was the lowest which any region of the civiHzed world 
could present. Their dwellings Avere hovels ; their clothing, 
rags ; and their food, an almost unseasoned root. But all 
this was paradise to what their state has been since — to 
what it is now. The very root which was so despised, we 
have come to regard almost with reverence ; and when we 
see how, by the withering of this single root, hundreds of 
thousands of human beings withered along with it, we can 
understand how the heatheii Egyptians bowed down to 



Ireland and the Irish. 51 

leeks in worship. The grave of the potato-seed was the 
grave of men, women, and children ; bnt the potato died 
knowing not its own existence, while the men, women, and 
children that perished with it expired in ghastly and con- 
suming torture, with blank despair of this inhospitable 
world, yet, thank God! not untrustful of a better. Far off 
though it was, we heard the low moaning of that despair, 
for at the extremities of earth the heart of man can feel the 
pantings of another heart that suffers, and, even where it 
cannot give relief, it fails not to give pity. 

Who can faintlj'' picture what even one family must have 
endured in such circumstances ? Think of them turning 
their weary eyes around on the arid fields, and vip to the 
sky, that seemed to grow sickly to them from hour to hour ; 
awaking in the morning,^ without a morsel to greet them ; 
watching through the day, counting minute after minute, 
awaiting the possible rehef that never came, or that came 
too late ; clasping each other on the filthy straw, or bare 
cold floor, through the miserable night ; sleeping to dream 
of feasting, awaking to die of famine. And yet we have not 
reached the worst part of the case. The most fatal pain 
lies here, not in the appetites, but in the affections. Look 
at the emaciated father, who comes in after vain search all 
day for food, and has nothing to offer his wife and little 
ones but a meal of unwholesome herbs, picked out of the 
ditches ; look at him when he can find even these no longer, 
when competition has consumed them. Has it entered into 
the heart to conceive of his affliction? Yet is that of the 
wife and mother even greater, who beholds the manly form 
bent and wasted of him that had been once her strength 
and her guide ; who beholds her chickens clustering about 
her, opening their craving mouths for food, and drooping as 
they get none. This picture is pale to what the reality 
must have been : and of such realities there was no small 



52 Gi/c'i' Lectures. 

number. It is to be feared that they have uot 3'et passed ; 
nay, it is to be feared that some are now passing. 

The Irish peasant in former days had a hut, such as it 
was ; but in these days his master hunts him out of it, as if 
he were a rat, and the land refuses him a hole for shelter. 
The workhouse is full ; the jail would be relief, and he 
breaks the law for refuge in a prison ; but by and by crime 
itself will be as fruitless as charit}', and the prisons will not 
bear the throngs that seek them. In former days the Irish 
peasant sat down to his potatoes, and while they laughed in 
his face, his partner and his offspring laughed around him. 
His cabin was of mud, covered with sods or straw ; but it 
gave him a home, and, in general, love and peace abode in it. 
Nor was hospitalit}'^ absent. No poor-laws existed, yet were 
beggars fed; no workhouses were in being, yet were beggars 
lodged ; the pauper had his seat at the peasant's meal, ho 
had his covering under the peasant's roof. 

If his condition even then was physically stiU below that 
of the Russian serf or the negro slave, what shall we say of 
his present condition ? The Eussian is a filthy creature in 
all his habits ; but his filth coexists with comfort and abund- 
ance. His filth is of his own creation, and he remains 
filthy because he chooses to do so. His dwelling is rude, 
biit it is warm ; his food is coarse, but it is plentiful. He 
is in no fear that any landlord will turn him out, for he has 
the right to continue where he toils, and to die where ho 
was born. If he must serve the emperor when the em- 
peror commands, he knows what his lot is, and he does 
not complain of it. In general, he glories in it ; for to 
be changed from being a serf into a soldier, is to rise in 
his own esteem. Without overlooking the degradation of 
humanity, and the sorrow which slavery inflicts itpon the 
negro, in the mere matter of bodily well-being, there is no 
comparison between his state and that of the Irish peasant. 



Ireland and f/ic Irish. 53 

It is the interest of Lis muster that lie sliall liave at least 
so much care as shall render him a saleable article or a 
jn-olitable laborer. His master is induced to give him a 
healthy youth, and he is bound to provide for him in age ; 
it is his interest even that he shall enjoy mental quiet and 
contentment, for the more cheerful he is, the more useful. 
No doubt he is often subjected to cruelty ; but even to the 
slave Christianity is a protection, for it infuses a sentiment 
into the moral heart, and creates a power of social opinion, 
which is stronger than" law — stronger than tyranny; and 
these, if they do not break the yoke, alleviate bondage. 
"Unlike the Russian serf, the Irish peasant's home is un- 
certain, and it is his master's desire not to keep him, but to 
cast him off ; and while all the power is on one side, there 
is no acknowledged claim on the other. Unlike the negro 
slave, the Irish peasant has no hold on the interests of his 
lord, as he certainly has no hold on his affections. He has 
no public opinion, in the class to which his lord belongs, to 
shield him fi'om oppression, and the sympathy which he 
lias among his own is such as tempts him often to revenge 
himself by methods always to be lamented. He may stand 
in manhood or sink in age, there is none but God on whom 
he can cast the burden of his care ; for among men, those 
who feel for him and with him are as helpless as himself. 

We have already stated a sad case, but we know from 
every week's report, that, at present, other terrible elements 
are at work. The potato withered last year ; this year the 
pike is forged and Avhetted. Fierce and dark passions are 
boiling in the breasts of men, and threaten to burst out in 
the tempest of civil, bloody strife, with all its hatreds and 
terrors. Despair has ceased to be quiescent ; it has started 
up in wildness from its laii', and shakes its Gorgon locks in 
deadly anger ; it has ceased to wail, it thunders ; and if it 
does not strike, it grasps its weapon. 



54 Giles^ Lectures. 

It were vain to enter si^ccially into causes wliicli Lave 
produced effects, such as these we have been describing. 
Whatever causes we might assign, remote or proximate, 
there is still an actuality before us of a most appalling 
character — a whole people starving amidst fertility, and 
arising in madness to look for hope in the face of death. 
Before this spectacle, abstract questions lose all their inter- 
est; our gaze is fascinated by the misery which is before us, 
which stares on us with horrid eye, and from which we 
cannot turn away, though Ave look on it with trembling. The 
plain, open wretchedness is there ; but it so appalls us, 
that we are unable to inquire or to discuss how it came to 
be there ; and the babble of discussion on hypotheses to 
account for hunger and revolt, by men who feed amply and 
feed at ease, is as offensive to our taste as the affliction itself 
is painful to our feelings. Whatever series of causes has 
issued in the effects which we contemplate, we see evidently 
and with alarm that it cannot stop, that it is not exhausted 
in these effects. We hope and trust that all these irritating 
elements may be lost in peaceful amelioration. 

The British power has many and grave crimes to answer 
for ; but we should lament with no common lamentation 
the wound that civilization must receive, not merely in the 
disruption of the British empire, but in any severe shock 
to it. The shower of lava that buries a single city, the 
earthquake that shakes one to pieces, history notes down in 
words of pathos and sadness that move the heart for ever. 
But the disorder which should tear to atoms laws, letters, 
culture, customs — which should crumble to dust beautiful 
structures of public and private taste — which should reduce 
to chaos arts of fancy and utility — all of which it has taken 
centuries to rear — would be a calamity to be compared, not 
with a shower of lava, a torrent, a hurricane, an earthquake, 
biit with a deluge which should come down from the black 



Ireland and the Irish. 55 

wratli of heaven, and bury in its flood, not millions only, 
but the works of millions also for a thousand years. Yet 
we feel that in the British islands affairs cannot continue 
as they are. In no part of them arc the people contented ; 
in Ireland they are mad. They are in the extremit}'^ of 
■wretchedness ; it is no wonder they should bo in the ex- 
tremity of desperation. The Irish people are starving, and 
yet the Irish soil is not barren. With all the ill treatment 
which it has to bear, it yet continues rich ; the clouds pour 
down fatness, and the earth gives forth abundance, yet 
multitudes do not so much live as wither. The soil is vital, 
while the people die. 

It seems a mystery to the inhabitants of this country how 
thousands should expire of hunger at a time when pro- 
visions Avere sent away from every port ; and why, while the 
war-ship went in with charity, the merchant-ship should go 
out for gain, both freighted with the staff of life. The 
mystery is easily explained. The manufacture and the com- 
merce of Ireland consist generally in the production of food 
and its exportation. The manufacturers are the tillers of 
the soil, who give in their labor all the capital, and pay 
high rents besides for that on which they toil. The land- 
lords are the owners of the soil, who expend no capital, and 
who take even more than the profit. The land cannot 
support these two classes as they are at present related. 
The landlord must have state and luxury, not expending 
time, or labor, or money, though the tenant, spending time, 
and labor, and money, has not subsistence. The best of the 
produce, animal and vegetable, is exported to meet the 
landlord's demands ; the worst is retained to supply the 
cultivator's wants. The cultivator must pay or quit. He 
sells his wheat, his oats, his stock, to pay; he reserves the 
potato, on which to exist. The potato fails ; the cultivator 
becomes a pauj^er or a corpse. But all are not thus at once; 



50 Giles' Lectures. 

and so, while whcjit is goiuj;- out from Cork from some to 
pay the laudlortl, maize is coming in for ahns to others, 
who haA-e ah-cady paid him. A man Avill feed his pig with 
potatoes, but he may never feed himself with pig. The man 
feeds the pig bnt to sell it, and he sells it to pay one Avho 
had never had trouble in rearing it. Eent not only takes 
the surplus produeticni of the tiller's labor, but constantly 
anticipates even more than the whole. It may, then, easily 
bo seen how the mass of a plentiful general prodtictiveness 
may be going out from a country, while the mass of its 
producers are running to the workhouse or famishing iu 
their cabins. 

We write practically and prosaically. We should more 
delight ourselves, iu writing on Ireland, to write poetically; 
for Ireland has much, indeed, to stir the spirit of poetry. 
Ireland is a land of poetry. The power of the Past there, 
over every imagination, renders it a land of romtince. The 
past is yet an actuality in Ireland ; in all the other parts 
of the British islands it is a song. The tragedy of Flodden 
Field moves a Scotchman's feelings, but it does not disturb 
his business ; the battle of Bannockburn calls iip his en- 
thiisiasm, but, though it keeps him late at the bottle, it 
never keeps him late from the counting-house. The im- 
prisonment of the poet-king Jamie softens his affections, but 
it leaves his judgment perfectly clear on bills of exchange 
and the price of stocks. Even the battle of Culloden is gone 
long ago to the calm impartiality of things that were. The 
Welshmen take English money without remorse, and say not 
a word about the assassin. King Edward, and the murder 
of their bards. Even the English themselves have but faint 
remembrance of the heptarchy, the revolt of the barons, 
the wars of the roses, the death of the tirst Charles, and the 
abdication of the second James. But events do not pass 
Ro rapidly in Ireland. Ireland is a country of tradition, 



Ireland and the Irish. 67 

of meditation, and of great idealism. It lias niucih of tho 
Eastern feeling of passion added to fancy, w'llh continuity i)f 
habit, as in the East, connected Avilh both passion and 
fancy. Monuments of war, princedom, and rciligion cover 
the surface of the land. The meanest inan lin<^'erH under 
the shadow of piles which tell him that his fathers were not 
slaves. Ho toils in the field or he walks on tho highways 
with structures before him that have stood the storms of 
time, through which tho wind echoes with the voice of 
centuries, and that voice is to his heart the voicte of soldiers, 
of scholars, and of saints. We Avould pen no ehilhng word 
respecting the impulse of nationality that now seems astir 
in Ireland. We honor every where the spirit of nationality. 
We honor the glorious heroism which, for an idea and a 
conviction, if it cannot do, can always dare and die. 

Much there is in Ireland that wo most dearly love. We 
love its music, sweet and sad, and low and lonely ; it comes 
with a pathos, a melancholy, a melody, on tlie pulses of the 
heart, that no other music breathes, and while it grieves, 
it soothes. It seems to Jlow with long complaint over the 
course of ages, or to grasp with broken sobs through the 
ruins and fragments of historic thought. We are glad with 
the humor of Ireland, so buoyant and yet so tender ; 
quaint with smiles, quivering with sentiment, pursing up 
the lips while it bedews the eyelids. Wo admire tho 
bravery of Ireland, which may have been broken, but never 
has been bent — which has often been unfortunate, but 
which never has been craven. We have much affection for 
tho Irish character. We give unfeigned praise to that 
purity of feeling which surrounds Irish women in tho 
humblest class, and amidst the coarsest occupations, Avith 
an atmosphere of sanctity. We acknowledge with heartfelt 
satisfaction that kindred love in the Irish poor, that no 
distance can weaken, and that no time (jan chill. We feel 



58 Giles' Lectures. 

satisfied with our Imnianitj^ when we see the lowty servant- 
girl calling for her wages, or drawing on the savings' bank 
for funds, to take tears from the eyes of a widowed mother 
in Connaught, or fears from the soul of an aged father in 
Munster. We behold a radiance of grandeur around the 
head of the Irish laborer, as he bounds, three thousand miles 
away, at the sound of Eepeal, at the name of O'Connell ; 
and yet more as his hand shakes, as he takes a letter from 
the post-oiSce, which, rude as it may be in superscription, is 
a messenger from the cot in which his childhood lay — is an 
angel from the fields, the hills, the streams, the mountains, 
and the moors wherein his boyhood sported. "We remem- 
ber Avith man}' memories of delight, too, the beauties of 
Ireland's scenery. "We recollect the fields that are ever 
green ; the hills that bloom to the summit ; the streamlets 
that in sweetness seem to sing her legends ; the valleys 
where the fairies play; the voices among her glens, that 
sound from her winds as with the spu-its of her bards ; the 
shadows of her ruins at moonlight, that in pale and melan- 
choly splendor appear like the ghosts of her ancient heroes. 
"We would, could we choose our theme, rather hnger on the 
beautiful songs of Moore than on the prosecutions of 
Meagher or of Mitchel ; and if in this paper we have dwelt 
more upon the physical and social wants of Ireland than 
on her higher and more ideal qualities, it is because the 
immediate pressure of present events has left us neither 
soul nor strength to do otherwise. 

But what is to come out of this pressure ? "We ask the 
question with fear and doubt. Is Ireland to come in con- 
flict with England? "We cannot always trust rumor, but 
rumor is at present dark and ominous. The event may 
not come ; but the very sound of it is fearful. War, in any 
way, is a monstrous calamity; but civil war is a calamity 
that transcends imagination. War between England and 



Ireland and the Irish. 50 

Ireland would be a civil war — there is no disguising it — and 
a civil "war of the worst description. We ask not which 
party would be right, but still we reiterate that this would 
be among the greatest of calamities. We do not inquire 
what title England has to govern Ireland, but we do ask 
what means Ireland has to combat England. 

We think that in revolutions, as in all human movements, 
there are certain ethical conditions, as well as prudential 
ones, which true men and wise will always respect. War 
has its morals as well as peace. Moreover, as war is of all 
controversies the most alllicting, and it is that whi(;h most 
involves innocent persons who have had no part in bringing 
it about, who yet may sul'ler the worst of its consequences, 
it should be the last, as it should be the most solemn, of 
human resolves. And if war is not to be sustained by civil- 
ized measures — if there is no guaranty that humanity even 
in its last strife shall be respected, to originate it is to 
assume a terrible resj)onsibility. If citizen is to butcher 
citizen — if the revolters are to exterminate the loyal, and 
the loyal to show no mercy to the revolters — if one has no 
power to compel the other even to military moderation, 
alas, alas for him who sets on the strife ! Ivcvolution may 
be an accident ; but if it be a calculation, it should bo a 
very s(jber calculation ; at best, it should be a very sad one. 
The simple fact, that a man thinks little of his own lite, 
gives him no title to our respect ; for the lowest of the 
human family have been found in this predicament. We 
have seen culprits at the bar stand up to receive the sen- 
tence of death, and even among the basest we have noticed 
those who listened to the sentence perfectly calm, and the 
most unmoved. When the lives of others are concerned, 
the man who cares nothing for his own often the longest 
hesitates. With the most determined conviction of the 
rierht, it is the thing most soi-rowful boneath the stars to 



00 ailts' iirturts. 

liftYo brothers of tho same soil uuvkini* u rod sea witli tJio 
life-stroiuus of OiU'h other's hearts, m uhioh, \vith oursos and 
detestation, botli sink in despair together. 

Then, in oases tliat involvo vast consoquouees both to 
masses and to individuals, the pnideutial does, in tho liighost 
sense, beoiuno othieal ; so that ^Yhat is e\tren\ely danger- 
ous is oxtroinolv wrong. ^Vhat wo tho moans and resonrees 
of war, at present, in tho war-party of Ireland against 
Kngland? This is not an unwise question, for He who was 
best auvl wisi\>t has said. "AVhat king, going to make war 
against auother king, sitteth not down tirst and eonsulteth 
whether ho bo able with ten thousaaid to moot him that 
oometh ag'jiinst him Avith twenty thousjuid?" They wlio 
wmild by foivo deliberately rovohitiouizo, must, if truo, 
thoroughly ponder this question, aud in tho groat court of 
conseioncQ tliov must not only ponder, but decide. A 
physical struggle with Kngland, as n more physicsU struggle, 
would to rt thoughtful nuvn just now present a serious case 
within tliis court, and outside of it tho consoquences would 
bo most solemn. Knghuid is at peace. England is, on the 
whole, prudent as to her colonies and her foreign relations, 
I'^nglaud has tleets and armies compactly organii:ed aud 
tlioroughly disciplined. Englsuid impels all tlio organic 
machinery of tho law and of power. "Within Ireland sho 
has a nnnierous party, and tho nvost consununate statesman- 
sliip, which would oppose Irisli nationality ; the most 
\etorai\ soldiership, which would light ag-jvinst Irish inde- 
pendence, would bo of Irisli productton. Tho composite 
nature v>f the Britisli empire, which might appear to be a 
weakness, is in resUity a principle of strong"th. And this, by 
a nn-olutionsuy thinker, should bo considered in relation to 
the »j«/t»nW of the Britisli army. 

Then> is no tuxny in tho world in which tho soUlier is so 
sopsvrated from tho citizen as in tho Britisli. There is no 



Iir/it)i(l ivu{ the Irish. 



bl 



anny in llio world, whii'li, iVom i(s (•oiiipoiiiulcd (•iKvnici.i-, 
tho }4'i)Yt'i-niU(Mil, i'!in bctliM- wield. A man IVdiu lll(^ Nurtli 
of Scotland may stand in the I'links luvsido a. man IVom IIk* 
South of l'ai;;Iand ; bot.ii may Ix^ opixiscd to an Irish in 
snr>4(>nt be (H)rdially \vilhM<^' to hIiooI iiim, and, if can^u* 
donuuid, to shoot (^icli otluu'. Tin* army iM co mixed, from 
localities, r(^li'^ion.s, ])rejudi<a>M, that, it haa no unity of 
spiritual wiMdimcnt or of Htx-ial purpoHO ; it [oiwh not to 
ruHli a-Miinst tho d(Mullic.st rcHista,m'(\ but it would not ihiro 
to disobey the nmst faintly whispered cinnmand. I'lnc;laiid 
can uso tliin j^ij^faidJc inKtnunent. It is for those who woidd 
lead In^liuul into a Avar, to tliiidi \vhat. Ireland can brin;;' 
against it. I'lnv.land has a tremendous artillery, both on the 
laud and on the N(^a. Nor is her sti(Mi;;th in [oVi.-o ahnn^. 
SliO luiH on her side the fears of the timid, and tJa^ hopes 
of tlio aspiriuf^" ; tJm distinction that allures the ambitaous, 
aiul the riches that bribe tlu^ sordid. 

Jf, howdvcr, tlu^'o b(^ cthica,l and prndciitial conaidcvationn 
to 1)0 tak(iM into view on tlni .side of r(\siHtan('(», thei'o a.ro 
ilioso of inlinilely inor(> solemn obli;;a.t ion on the side of 
authority. Oii tho nn)ra.l siile of tho ([uostiou, it is I'oi- 
rulei'H to iiupiiro Avlnither the nnului!S,s a,in[ misery of tho 
peo[)l(( are not traceable to the iui;^lect a,ml misiisa;';(^ of the 
pooplo. It in for rulcra to auk thcmselvcH whether the 
millions havo had justice dono (U'<m to their bodies. ll;i,vo 
men had leav(i to toil, and wlu'ii tlu^y have had tha.t nielaii- 
(•holy Icsavo, havo tliey hail by it. the means to live? In 
what way havo tho vanity or iudulj^'eucos of tho few inter- 
forcil with tho industry ami oomfortH of tho many V And 
whon tho nuuiy, at last, ma,l;o their sul'ferin,",s felt, is com- 
plaint to bo Kileimed l>y force? If, iu tho end, tho blooil 
of thousamls (low, iijion wiioso head must th;d, blooij bo 
charged? Tho (-ondiK't of members in tho IJritish Ibiuso 
of Commons, on tiio (ncnin,"; of the day of tin' (!li;iiti;it 



G2 Giles' Lectures. 

meeting, strikes us with a painful surprise. Bodies of 
gaunt men gathered \vithin view of the metropohs — a cloud 
of silent but of potent passions, that hovered on its margin 
with dread foreboding. The metropolis itself was one vast 
garrison. Men were silent, women feared ; and neither 
breathed freely till the assurance came, with night, that 
danger had disappeared. On the other side of the Chan- 
nel, resistance was openly and fearlessly preached, and it 
was not alone preached, but prepared for. On that solemn 
night — a night one might suppose in which the most reck- 
less would be serious, when, if men stood in England on 
solid ground, the rest of Europe was heaving with a moral 
earthquake — on that night, the assembled Commons of the 
British empire met the complaints of infuriated masses 
with peals of contemptuous laughter. This was assuredly 
as far from the grave decency which they owed to the occa- 
sion, as it was from the dignity of senators and the wisdom 
of statesmen. When heathen Nineveh was threatened, her 
rulers decreed penance in sackcloth and ashes ; when 
Christian London was threatened, her legislators laughed. 
Such laughter sounds more like the rebound of cowardice 
fi-eed from danger, than the levity of tranquil coui-age ; the 
laughter, not of self-possession, but of trepidation. If 
thoughtless, it was folly, and if intentional, it was worse. 
Are property, privilege, and power to have all attention and 
respect, while want and labor are for mockery and scorn ? 
Such conduct imphes neither magnanimity nor good sense. 

It is for rulers to ask themselves whether the millions 
have had justice done to their minds. Ireland has had for 
centuries a Chui'ch of monstrous inutility and enormous 
wealth forced on her, agamst her creed and her consent, 
with revenues that would have instructed all her people, and 
done much to feed her poor. England lavishes funds with 
imperial prodigality over the whole earth, as well as within 



Ireland and the Irish. 63 

her own borders, but is penurious with miser meanness 
in the support of popular instruction. The cost of Prince 
Albert's stables would educate a province. The cost of the 
Queen's nursery would educate a kingdom. How are in- 
congruities like this — and this is but one of a legion — to be 
endured in the nineteenth century, when the human mind 
has awakened to its rights and to its power — Avhen human 
energies assume a might with which they never acted 
before ? The most ragged Chartist is a man, as well as the 
best clad lord ; and take the clothes away, God and nature 
have not placed any immeasurable distance between them, 
after all. Of the two, the Chartist may be the better man, 
and the Chartist is beginning to feel this. If the Chartist 
owes submission to the laws of his country, his country 
owes obligations to him ; and all moralists concede that 
there is a boundary beyond which submission ceases to be 
a virtue. It is the dut}' of wise and good rulers never to 
let that boundary be reached. If authority demands obedi- 
ence, authority should be so used that the obedience may be 
willing as well as rational. This is not only true humanity; 
it is good pohcy. 

Thus expediency teaches the same lesson to rulers as 
morality. The victory over the Chartists, notwithstanding 
the boastings of the middle classes and the nobles, was a 
doleful vietor3^ If it showed the strength of government, 
it equally displayed its danger. Masses made the com- 
mencement of a demonstration, which may be only the 
beginning of an end. The Chartists were dispersed ; but 
was Chartism annihilated? Were the grievances extin- 
guished out of the depths of which Chartism cries with its 
loud and strong appeal of agony? It may, for the time, 
retreat to its cellar-and-garret concealment ; moody and 
wordless, it may sit brooding on its wrongs, but, passive 
though it seems, it is but preparing for other efforts of 



64 Qiles^ Lectures. 

greater vigor and of calmer decision. In the tactics of 
society, as well as in the tactics of war, it may be a fatal 
error to mistake retirement for defeat, or the possession of 
the field for victor}-. For the present. Chartism may be 
discouraged in England, insurrection may be put down in 
Ireland ; but English Chartism and Irish insurrection, come 
out from sources which no outward force can reach. The 
agency that can reach the fountains from which they spring, 
that can purify or change the direction of the streams, must 
be inward, radical, and moral. The pikemen of Ireland, it 
is true, might be hewn to pieces ; but when bodies lay stiff 
upon the ground, and gibbets tainted the air — when native 
blood darkened the stream and sullied the field, nothing 
would result from triumph but fresh calamities and increase 
of enmity. Even as to physical securit}^, the strongest gov- 
ernment is liable to err. Rulers may think themselves safe 
within their battlements of bayonets, but their thoughts 
may be delusive. Desperation may achieve what no dis- 
ciphne could attempt ; enthusiasm may be more than a 
match for skill ; passion may shatter calculation ; and 
against the uproused fury of excited millions, garrisons, 
artillery, the most solid columns of soldiery, might prove as 
feeble as an Indian's teut upon the prairie in the midst of 
a hurricane. The risk of collision is great on both sides ; 
but rulers have their share in it as well as the people. How 
great that is, recent events, the money-lenders of Europe, 
vagrant ministers, and kings out of place, can plainly tell. 
It is better to conciliate than to provoke ; and surely that 
old saw, " Prevention is easier than cure," is a precept as 
worthy of observance by doctors of the body politic, as by 
doctors of the body corporal. What would seem grace at 
one time, becomes unworthy of acceptance at another ; and 
to know that point at which concession should anticipate 
compulsion, implies a degree of administrative sagacity, and 



Ireland (ind the Irish. 05 

of legislative foresight, Avhicb it is rarely given to politicians 
or to ministers to possess. 

The politician is among the most common and the most 
vulgar of characters ; the statesman, among the highest 
and the most infrequent. England, and other countries 
Vk'hich we shall not name, may start a politician from every 
hedge ; but it requires a generation to supply a statesman. 
There is a time when concession may be grace ; let that 
time pass, and the very offer becomes insult. It is then too 
late. " Too late " is a phrase, in its ordinary use, of harrow- 
ing significance. "When love becomes despised, vows are 
then too late. When friendship, known often to be vio- 
lated, implores reconciliation from betrayed friendship, dis- 
trust has entered, and the prayer is too late. When disease 
has fixed its seat in central vitality, and the neglected 
physician is called to remove it, he looks only on the eye, 
he touches only the pulse, and he says, it is too late. That 
" too late " is despair to those who hear it : but the fact is 
certain then, and they cannot remove it with many tears — 
no, if their tears should make a deluge. " Too late " is the 
burden of all the tragedies of individual and of private life, 
and just now it is the burden of desolated thrones. The 
individual heart that breaks in its remorse, groans out, " It 
is too late ; " and so does many a royal one exclaim, that 
withers in its exile. " Come, let us sit upon the ground," 
says one of Shakespeare's characters to another, "and tell 
strange stories of the deaths of kings." The phrase, to suit 
our present age, should be, " Come, let us sit upon the 
ground, and tell strange stories of the flight of kings." 
England's sovereign may feel secure amidst the crash of 
dynasties ; but those who would keep her safe, must not de- 
spise the warning that booms around them. If her throne 
would be secure, it must be founded in righteousness ; and 
if her sceptre would be honored, it must be a sceptre of 



G6 Giks^ Lectures. 

peace. Her throne must not Lave beneath it the fear of 
any, but the love of all ; and her sceptre must be a wand 
that waves not amidst complaints, but amidst blessings. 
England may seem strong, Ireland may seem weak, but 
there is no strength except in justice ; and if Ireland, in 
this, has the advantage of England, she is stronger, though 
Ireland were small as the Duchy of Baden, and England 
were largo as the empire of China. 

After all, we are moralists, not politicians, and we cannot 
forget our vocation. We may be accused of repetition, but 
we shall not risk the charge of unfaithfulness. England has 
been deeply guilty towards Ireland, and Ireland has now be- 
come her punishment. England, within late years, may have 
had kinder intentions towards Ireland than the England of 
former ages ; but, notwithstanding her kind intentions, the 
Ireland which she so long ill-treated has become her per- 
plexity and her penalty. The Ireland which, by neglect, 
by partial or adverse legislation, she has impoverished or 
kept in poverty, deluges her cities, swamps her labor- 
market, paralyzes her industrial energies, reduces the wages 
of her people, and continues to pull them down rapidly to 
Irish hunger, Irish nakedness, and Irish despair. Wrong is 
indissolubly bound to retribution. This Ave have before ex- 
pressed, but it can hardly be too often reasserted. Nations, 
as well as individuals, may want that large foresight which 
sees afar into the future, and which perceives, in all circum- 
stances, that it is not merely the dictate of virtue, but the 
wisdom of calculation, to deal justly, to do right. They 
may bo blinded by the present passion or the present gain, 
but the law works on, though they do not, or cannot, or will 
not see it, until the crash of its power awakens them to 
doom. Late repentance is better than perpetual sin, but 
sin plants seeds of evil which produce their envenomed 
crop, despite the most penitent remorse. That justice alone 



Ireland and the Irish. (',7 

is safety, antl that iinriglitcousiicss is suvo dostnietion, is 
Avritteu on every page of life, on every page of liistory. It 
is a lesson whicli all that run may read, and yet it is a 
lesson which is as universally neglected as it is uiiiv(!rsally 
admitted. 

riiysieally, socially, morally, the present state of Ireland 
is most gloomy and most disastrous. Hunger and hatred 
go hand in hand ; hunger yearning for the potato, while 
hatred prepares the pike. The cloud of agitation gathers, 
and seems every hour to grow darker. The bursting of the 
cloud threatens to bo near ; but as }ot, tliero appears 
among the people no man who could "ride upon the Avhirl- 
wind, and direct the storm." The people are not only 
divided into manifold and inveterate parties, but parties 
are again divid(;d among themselves. Young men harangue 
the people against the troops, and these troops preserve 
their lives from the passions of the people. What mind has 
yet shown itself so calm in thought, so comprehensive in 
rellection, so decisive in action, that it could reconcile all 
the contradictions of popular Ireland, and bring them 
united and compacted against the disciplined and regulated 
force of England ? Fervor there is in abundance; enthusi- 
asm, passion, ready utterance, and daring speech, the most 
impulsive eloquence. We doubt, indeed, whether in Ireland, 
in the grandest day of her oratorical renown, there ever 
shot forth a crop of finer words than comes out now from 
the soil of her young and impassioned genius. But though 
a great man said that "words are things," the agents who 
have created greatest things, were men of fewest words. 
Washington could not have made an oration to save his 
life, and Jel'lerson, who wrote the ])(!claration of Indepen- 
dence, had but small power of thiiddng on his feet. Wo 
do not underrate the influence of grand and impassioned 
speech ; we hold that utterance is a sublime faculty — that it 



68 Giles' Le.cUires. 

can set the brain on fire, and the heart in flame ; but to 
guide a nation, when that nation has reached its chmax of 
excitement, the finest iitterance will be feeble. It was 
Moses who led the hosts of Israel out from Eg-ypt, and to 
the borders of the promised land, yet Moses was poor of 
speech ; Aaron, who was eloquent, was but the mouth of 
Moses, and Aaron was always only secondary. At the 
present hour we behold on the popular side of Ireland, no 
commanding mind — no mind of large capacity for counsel 
— no mind of varied resources for command. There is no 
great mind on the other side either ; but the other side con- 
trols all the machinery of government, and has all the 
prestige of power. 

We sympathize with the sufferings of Ireland, and we 
lament her evils ; we look with a painful interest upon her 
present crisis ; but at this distance, were it even within the 
province of our journal, it would be idle in us to speculate 
on remedies. Whether a repeal of the Union would remove 
the grievances of which Ireland complains, it is not for us 
to say; it is cleai*, however, that the enactment of the Union 
did not prevent them. When the Union was first mooted 
in the British Parliament, Pitt presented the measure in 
a speech of remarkable compass and power. Imposing as a 
rhetorician, quick as a debater, and possessing a fluency 
wonderfully correct, Pitt was seldom grandly eloquent, but 
in this speech he became so. In picturing the future which 
was to open upon Ireland under the sunshine of an im- 
perial parliament, he rose to a kind of millennial grandeur. 
Sectarian strifes were to be allayed ; political divisions 
would be assuaged ; capital would flow into the country ; 
industry would be encouraged ; commerce would advance ; 
tranquillity and comfort would abound. Large promises 
were given, and bright prophecies uttered ; but where are 
the fruits of the promises, and where are the things foretold 



Ireland and the Irish. 69 

in the prophecies? After half a century, there is not one 
spot in Ii'eland which answers to the anticipations of Pitt. 
The Union was no measure of the people ; it was a con- 
trivance of intriguing ministers, efiected by acting on the 
base motives of men, who grasped at the bribe and gave up 
their country. 

Had the Union been honest — had it it been the fair choice 
of the whole people, and on terms approved by their wisest 
counsellors — had it been cordial and recijDrocal, it is not for 
us to conclude, from what we now see, what might have 
been. Had imperial legislation given emancipation at once 
to the Catholics, and given it generously and graciously — ■ 
had it relieved the country from the Church establishment, 
and left the care of each form of religion to those who pro- 
fessed it — had it introduced a bounteous system of national 
education — had it treated the sacred feelings of the larger 
division of Irishmen with kindness and respect — had it done 
justice to popular sentiment in the distribution of political 
offices — had it separated the administration of law from the 
spirit of faction, by showing the misguided that the balance 
of justice never swerved except on the side of mercy — had 
the Union been a bond of friendship and an interchange 
of benefits — it would have been a reality. But none of 
these things took place, and, as it was, it was not a union, 
but a cheat. 

The delay to grant Catholic emancipation doomed the 
people of Ireland to thirty years of struggle, and the 
manner in which it came at last tended rather to irritate 
than to pacify. The long struggle educated them in the 
consciousness of their strength, taught them how to use it, 
and emboldened them for continued resistance. The gall- 
ing vexation of tithes and church-rates was long sustained, 
and that huge anomaly, that monstrous blunder of folly 
and injustice, still remains — a Protestant Church supported 



70 Giles' Lectures. 

by fi Catholic people ; the Church the richest in the worlcl, 
aiacl the people the poorest. 

The Uiiiou has assuredl}- uot produced social order. If 
it has, where are we to look for it? Shall we seek it in 
Coucihation Hall, or in that of the Confederates? Shall 
we hear its voice in the modulated complaint of John 
O'Connell, or in the fierce defiance of Smith O'Brien ; in 
the florid imagination of Meagher, or the concentrated pas- 
sion of Mitchel ? Shall we turn for its pleasant souuds to 
the anvil on Avhich the pike is shaped ? There is the " Song 
of the Bell," and the " Forging of the Anchor ; " shall we 
dedicate a lyric to the social order of Ireland in the " Song 
of the Pike ? " Shall we take, as evidence of its existence, 
the congTCgations of moody peasants that a word can bring 
together, and that -a motion can excite ? Or shall Ave prefer 
to see it in fortifications, where death lies in wait for 
thousands, should these thousands show signs of fight? 
The truth is, the whole condition of Ireland is disjointed, 
and ^^hothcr Ivepetil coi;ld remedy it or not, Ave do not aver, 
but, as Avo have observed, the Union has, at least, not 
averted this monstrous, this appalling Avretchedness. The 
Avealthy and the poor arc in no true relations to each other. 
Their relations are those of coercion on the one side, and 
sullen discontent on the other ; a discontent that seems 
groAviug to the boldness of an open resistance. Complain- 
ings are in the streets ; disease is in the hovel and the 
cellar ; the dying go Avhere the Aveary arc at rest, and the 
siTrviving stuj behind, not knoAving hoAv to live. Cities 
have become garrisons ; palaces are turned into barracks ; 
the land is bare of bread ; it is filled Avith soldiers. Come 
the tourist into Ireland, whence he may — from France, 
England, Germany, Russia, Asia, or America, from any 
region of civilized man betAvecn Cape Horn and Gibraltar, 
from the Ganges to the Tiber — the Avondcr is alike in each. 



Ireland and Ike Irish. 71 

the testimony as uniform, the expression of it as unvarying 
in pLrase, as the sources from ■which it is derivetl are 
diverse and independent — each finds in Ireland a singu- 
hirity of wretchedness, an originahty of misery, which out- 
runs not only his experience, but his fancy. " Well," said 
Colonel Napier, while describing the state of Europe at the 
commencement of the Peninsular War — "of Ireland it is 
unnecessary to speak ; her wrongs and her misery, peculiar 
and ^^nparallelcd, are too well known and too little regarded 
to call for any remark." The author who wrote these words 
is at present commanding, wo believe, in Ireland. What 
Avould he say of Ireland, if he should undertiijce to write 
another book ? 

These agitations in Ireland arise from no superficial 
causes. It is short-sighted and vain to ascribe them to 
temporary inlluences, or to the agency of individuals. As 
well might the fever which burns through tlie body of a 
patient be ascribed to the quickness of the pulse, which is 
the concomitant, but not the cause, of the disease. No man, 
no class of men, no combination of talents, no force of 
genius, no subtlety of scheming, can widely agitate or long 
control millions of people who are governed well and feel 
that they are. No such power can disturb a nation per- 
manently, when the masses of it are content ; and they will 
be content, when they know by exi^erience that in its pros- 
perity they have their due share, and in its adversity no 
more. The potency, therefore, which leaders have over 
multitudes, they gain not all from character, not all from 
mental superiority; they gain it from the uneasy elements 
which the multitudes themselves contain. Though the Irish 
leaders, therefore, were as bad as their o^jponents paint 
them, the question as to the real condition of the country 
would remain the same ; that is a setilcd fact, untouched 
entirely either l)y the eulogium or the abuse of this njan or 



72 Cij.'ci" Ltdiiiis. 

tlie otlior. Those ngitatious cannot bo sulnluod bv force, 
for thongh they may disappear for a period, it is only to 
come lip agixin witli maturer streugtli. They arise fi'om 
radicjvl cAUses, and thoy vrill cease only ^^■ith radical changes. 
"Whether by jui imporiid or domestic legislature, Irohuid 
must bo governed by her consent, not by coercion — by the 
power of opinion, and not by the edge of the sword. She 
must no longer be a military province. She cannot con- 
tinue to be as she has been and as she is. Tho time has 
come for her to insist on a higher place in the empire — in 
the world — and not insist in vain. That slio ought to have 
it is the decision of that sentiment of justice, which acts 
strongly, and more strongly with every ■successive change, 
in tho conscience of all Christendom. 

In the opening part of this tu'tiele we suggested a lesson 
of warning to be leiu'nod from the present state of Europe. 
In this closing part of it, we would suggest a lesson of en- 
coursigoment. The youngest and the oldest of us havo 
heard little from the politic:il writers of Europe but prophe- 
cies on tho instability of our govexument, or on the 
certainty of its failure. "We were either so wise or so rasli 
!is to talio no svlarm from these prophecies. That we wei*e 
right to feel at peace, most of them will now admit. These 
forebodings were written under the shadows of thrones 
that havo tumbled to pieces about the writers" e:u*s, and tho 
thrones, which were to st^ind securely on their simple and 
sound foundation, while our clumsy and unwieldy con- 
federacy wjxs to go to pieces, went in fragments to the 
earth before tho ink was dry upon the printer's paper ; yet 
probably oxir institutions may bo firm, when dyix:\sties that 
mocked us sliall be forgotten. 

Our government, it was said, was but an experiment ; it 
proves now not jui experiment, but experience — au experi- 
ence from which men of ancient States are able to learn. 



lirlnnd and I he Irish. *l',\ 

AVd hiivo our inob.M, iiiul luob.s ol'l-dii of llui woi'hI, Kind ; l)iil, 
tlicy (|iii(-kly cliasolvo, and loiive no nioro iiuproHHioii on (ho 
soliilily of our Hooiiil Hiructuro limn a Huow-Hhowcr docH 
upon ihn jjfrjinil,(i of Monad noi^k. Wo havo oviLs iiinoii;^ uh, 
\V(i conlcss, tJial, ci-y l,o lioavusn ; wo liavo abimcH of \vlii('li 
\V(( may wtiLl bo aHliiuncd ; wo liavo Hin.s iliat (;all For Acvp 
icpcnianco ; yofc, nol, indulj^Mu;^' in any idio truMl., but a(;l,ivo 
willi indivi<hi;d cH'oil., wo niay hop(! Ilial, I'rovidonco will in 
iiino cauHo nuioh ilial, wo laiM(!nl Mud, l,lio f^ixjd and l,nio 
ovorywluiro lamoid, — to bo hcou and known in our (tonnlry 
no nioro for ovor. Wo niay liavo unwortliy nion in tlio iu\- 
inini.stration of our allairH, and unwortliy niotiv(!H niay ofton 
diotato oui' ni(!aKur(!H. In tliiH wo aro not Hin}.;ular anions 
natiouH ; I)ut wci am tliu.s far singular anion^^ nationn, tliat 
tlio Kubstantial rif^litn of tlio jxioplo cannot bo (!HH(!ntialIy 
injurcul oven by tho bad purpoHOH of Kcliominff p(j]itioianH, 
nor tho framework of the government overturiujd. Wo 
l)roKervo unity with a divcrnity of indopondent Stat(!H, and 
with a widening and complicated Hul'/Vago. With tho great- 
est latitude of individual a(;tion and individual oj)iiiion, 
tho adniiniHtratiou of affairs \h conduet(id, upon tlio whole, 
with order and traiufuillity. Wo have, im have otlnir 
countrieH, crimes against life and prop(frty; j)ut, (ixcepi, in 
Home wild n^gions, life and jiroiiei'ty arc; aH Kale hero an any- 
where upon (sai'th. 

One fatal miKtake the rnlern in l^jurope committful, from 
which we w(!ro free. They nuppoHcd tluiy k(^pt powt^r from 
the ])(!ople becaUHO tlusy k(!]»t the franchise from tluim. JJiit 
the people have pcnver all the Kam<\ whethei* tlusy jiosschh 
tho franchise or not ; and the p(!ople will use it too. 'riie 
quoHtion which Heeras to agitate the mind is, In what 
way will they UHO it bcMtV iJy irregidar (hunojiHtrationH 
and by external prcHHure, or by oidcriy airang(!ment and 
organic rcprcsontation V I'lach man lier(i acts ihrough hin 

1 



71 GUcs' Lid KITS. 

volo, and, as all tlio people have votes, there is not even 
iho possibility of an external pressure. It is by this ex- 
ternal pressure, by this irregular agency of the unfranchised 
nuiss, that revohitions arc ellccted ; and no nation tlius 
circumstanced is secure from revolution otherwise than 
by force. But force has greatly lost its power, and will 
Hoon cease to bo a protection. If men are not fit for the 
franchise, then it is the duty of the government to qualify 
thoni. The duty in our country is so to cdvicato men that 
llu\y may use intelligently the votes they hold of right ; the 
duty of otlier countries is so to educate men that they may 
bo prepared to use the votes which, if not given by reform, 
they will take by revolution. 

The agitations which at present excite all Europe are of 
solemn import. They indicate a in'()gressivo development 
of great ideas — a progressive recognition of grand principles. 
The soul of humanity has been at work in them, and that 
is a power which no armies can compicr. From the soul, 
society has its existence and has its glory. Give the soul 
freedom, and there is life ; straiten it, wrong it, and you 
]u-epare destruction. It has a might which can sweep away 
llio strongest ramparts, which can sil-enco the loudest 
cannon, which can blunt the shai'pest sjiears. The point 
of the bayonet, it was once tlionglit, could quiet all iu>])ular 
i-emonstranco ; but the bayonet has ceaKcd to bo invincible. 
Sentiments have become stronger than weapons. Society 
begins more and more to feel its luunanity. A revelation 
has come to multitudes that they are men, and it is this 
faith which wtu-ks in them with most wondrous etticacy. 
It is in the strength of this that they burst their chains 
asunder, and dash their fetters at their keepers. Beneath 
the outward events of the world — the battles of parties, the 
schemings of factions, the plottings of intriguers, the eleva- 
tion (if jieopU^s, and the fall of kings, the doings of the 



Ire/and diid the Irish. 



75 



active, and ilu) theories of tho Hp(H;ii];il,ive— tlio rrovidoiico 
of Ood is o[)(u-iitui{j^ ill the depths of luuimuity, iuvigor- 
utiiif,' its Ci4)!U',itios, guidiii«,' its destiny, and prepiiriiif,' it to 
vindicate everywliore tlio Divine Hkeness in which it was 
orij^inally ereated. 





DANIEL O'CONNELL. 

[In the (.'ourse of this lecture on Daniel O'Counoll, I 
pvoposG to trace tlie loading incidents of his life — to con- 
sider him as a man of public action, as a man also of public 
speech, and, hxstly, to attempt an estimate of his nrind and 

character.] 



Daniel 0'Connei.l was born on the iJth of Augiist, 1775, 
in Cahir-civeen, in the County of Kerry. He was of an 
old family which claimed to bo of royal descent. "When 
thirteen years of age, he was sent to a classical school in 
Ivedingtou, near tJio Covo of Cork, kept by the l\ov. Mr. 
Harrington. This is said to have been the llrst school 
publicly opened after the repeal of those laws which nuido 
it penal for Roman Catholics to educate tlieir children. 
AVith youth, fresh from the mountains — with a mind trained 
in healthful simplicity — with an imagination which had 
received its lirst impressions from the cloud-capped head- 
lands of Kerry, and from the billowy and bouniUess Atlantic 
— with a memory stored from the treasury of Celtic legend, 
from the wild and passionate complaints of song and 
story — he entered the College of St. Omers, a seminary for 
Catholic instruction. After a short interval at Douai, he 
came back to St. Omers, and was thence excluded by the 
French Revolution, and escaped to England. The pro- 
fession of the law was optMicd to the Ivoman Catholics in 



Ihiniil (J'Coiiik//. 77 

170.'}: 0'(JoiiJH;ll Hl,ii(li(;(l (or jl,, iuid ill I'JUH Iirj w,'i» <:ii,llr;(l 
to Uic, Ii-IhIi bar. lie wuh uirion^' the iirHi of IjIh (J}injf;Ji f,o 
avail liimHcli' of UiIh relaxation of the jjeiial code, lie eiit(;r(:d 
the political arena at the same time, and immediately Ijecamc, 
a,H lie afterwarrlH continued tf^ be, the champion of Irinh 
nationality. He made hin firHt pul^hc speech in 1800 — 
a speech which at once gave notice that a great orator and 
a great man had been Ijorn into the world. Shortly after, 
in 1802, he married his cousin, Mary O'Connell, with whom, 
as he declared, he had thirty years of as pure hapjiinesH as it 
is given to man to enjoy on earth. 'Jims blesned at tlie 
entrance of household life, he began at once a course of 
prosperous activity. He had not long to wait and bitterly 
to fear, as many a young man of worth and genius has, in 
the first struggles of his profession; to have the hope of love 
deferred until the heart is sif;k or withered ; or to rihk the 
martyrdom of domeBtic penury — in which sympaiJiy itself 
becomes a knife in tlie hand of Indigence, whetted on affec- 
tion, to cut the fle.sh that is nearest to the heart — in which 
the puzzled brain is often called on to do its best, when 
malicious Fortune has done her worst. O'Connell had no 
such trials. Practice came to him early, and tf/'the last it 
continued to increase. " The first year I was at the bar," 
said he to Mr. Daunt, "I made ,£;58; the second, about .£;1.50; 
the third, <£;200 ; the fourth, about 300 guineas. I then 
advanced rapidly, and the last year of my practice I got 
JDO.OOO, although I lost one term," But the great work 
of O'Connell's hfe was to labor for the political emancipation 
of the Catholics. " For more than twenty years," he says to 
the Earl of Shrewsbury, "before the passing of the Catholic 
Emancipation Bill, the l^urden of the cause was thrown on 
me. I had to arrange the meetings, to prepare the resolu- 
tions, to furnish replies to correspondence, to examine the 
case of each person complaining of practical grievance.% to 



78 Giles' Lectures, 

rouse tlie torpitl, to animate the lukewarm, to control tho 
violent and inflammatory, to avoid the shoals and breakers 
of the law, to guard against multiplied treachery, and at all 
times to oppose, at every peril, the powerful and multitu- 
dinous enemies of the cause." Such was the work which 
O'Connell had for a quarter of a century to do, and to do 
it gratuitously: for it was not until he entered Parliament 
(hat popular provision was made to supply him with an 
income. That the position had even personal danger, was 
proved by the duel which D'Esterre, a member of the 
Dublin Corporation, forced on O'Connell in 1815, evidently 
from political rancor. D'Esterre w^as noted as a marksman ; 
but at the first shot, O'Connell killed him; an event which, 
though driven to it by the tyranny of society, he never 
ceased to repent of and to regret. 

The organization which O'Connell worked successively 
changed its name, but never changed its nature. In 180-4, 
it was the Catholic Board; in 1808, the Cathohc Committee; 
in 1823, the Catholic Association. When the organization 
was forbidden under one name, it merely assumed another; 
did not die, but only lived a stronger life. Such it was by 
tho power* of O'Connell; and the power of O'Connell con- 
sisted in the might and force which enabled him to grasp 
the genius of the People within the embrace of his sympa- 
thies, his passions, and his intellect. So it was that the asso- 
ciation, thus inspired, grew into its greatness, and gathered 
to its strength, until, from a few individuals in an obscure 
room, it consisted of millions — became not only commen- 
surate with the island, but spread its influence throughout 
the world. Another spirit was, however, in this organiza- 
tion, who, though subordinate in it to the genius of O'Con- 
nell, should not be left unnoticed. I allude to Richard 
Lalor Sheil. Yery diU'crent from O'Connell Shell was in 
many particulars — not the least in social and political ten- 



Dun id (yConncll. 79 

dcncies. O'Conncll Kympatliizod g(M\oriilly with ilio I'lulical 
democracy; Slioil with tho moderate and literary wbiti's. 
AVliile the laws excluded both from Parliament, both battled 
on the same arena. When that exclusion ceased, their 
different tastes prompted divergent courses. ]5ut howH^vor 
Slieil differed from O'Connell in opinions and disposition, 
he stood beside him in eloquence and genius. Shoil Inul a 
mind of tho liucst nature and of the richest cultivaiioii ; a 
vigorous intellect, and an exuberant fancy. His speaking was 
a condensation of thought and passion — in brilliant, elabo- 
rate, and often antithetical expression. He hap})ily vuiited 
precision and embellishment, and his ideas in being adorned 
became not only attractive, but distinct. Images were as 
easy to him as words, and his figures were as correct as 
they were abundant. With a faculty peculiarly dramatic, 
he gave vivid illusioji to scenes and characters with which 
he filled the imaginations of his hearers. He compressed 
into a passage the materials of a tragedy, and moved, as ho 
pleased, to terror and to pity. Ho was not the less the 
master of invective and of sarcasm. He was, in prose, 
almost as effective a satarist as Pope was in verse — as 
scathing and as lacerating. He clothed burlesque in as 
mocking a gravity; was as bitter in his irony, as polished 
in his wit, as elegant in his banter, and soniotinios as 
unmerciful in his ridicule. In tho battle for Catholic eman- 
cipation, this splendid and impassioned orator was heard 
everywhere in Ireland shrieking IVn-th the wrongs of liis 
people. That shrill voice of his cried aloud and S2:)ared not. 
It stirred his brethren to indignation and to action; it 
pierced into their souls, and awakened to torture tho sense 
of their degradation. It was heard in ni(;tropolis and vil- 
lage; on the mountain and in the market-plMce. It r;ing- out 
from sea to sea, and was chorused by the slu.nis of sympa- 
thetic multitudes, O'Connell was tho le-^islaior and the 



80 Giks^ Lectures. 

doer, but iu the agency of speech Shell ^Yas ludefatigable, 
and had no superior. 

In 1828 O'Connell was elected for Clare. But he could 
not take the oaths -which lay between him and his seat. In 
1820 these oaths were removed, and O'ConneU was again 
triumphantly returned for Clare. From that time till his 
death, he continued to be, for one place or another, a mem- 
ber iu every Parhoment. He used, indeed, to caU himself 
the member for all Ireland; and, in some sense, such he was. 
Iu 1842 he opened his agitation for repeal of the union. 
Upon the prosecution of Government, at the instigation of 
Sir Eobert Peel, he was convicted of sedition, sentenced to 
be imprisoned for a year, and to pay a fine of £2,000. On 
appeal to the House of Lords, the judgTuent was reversed; 
O'Connell and his fellow-prisoners, after three months con- 
finement, wei-e released. In the course of the discussion iu 
the I'pper House, Lord Denman spoke the memorable 
words, '' that prosecutions so conducted would render trial 
by jury a mockery, a delusion, and a snare."' O'Con- 
nell was released; but impi-isonment had left its ineradi- 
cable mark upon his spirit. It did not injure his body, 
but it entered into his soul. It proved him vulnerable ; 
and when a man is thought invulnerable, a wound in the 
heel is as fatal as the splitting of the head. His person till 
then was as the person of a tribune, which no man must 
rudely touch and hve. The spell was broken; he felt it 
was, and he began to droop. The majesty that doth hedge 
a king had been attacked; though not despoiled, it had 
vet been profanely treated. He could no longer reign : 
his battles had not henceforth the prestige of victory or 
of hope. The hard but exhilarating contest in which his life 
had passed must succumb to prosy forms; the wild eloquence 
that shouted in its free power over the surging seas of mul- 
titudes must sink to cautious tameness in the presence of 



Daniel O'Coymell. 81 

a government reporter ; must give account of itself at the 
bidding of Tory judges. The charm was dissolved, and 
Avitii it the glory of unquestioned dominion. Division, dis- 
union, and feud began to rage around his throne. The im- 
patience of younger enthusiasm spurned his veteran policy ; 
resistance to his long-honored authority completed the dis- 
memberment of his kingdom, and broke to pieces the unity 
of his might. He sickened. He went to the Continent in 
1847 — not so much with the hope of restoration, as cjn a 
religious pilgrimage ; and he died at Genoa on May the 
15th of that year. His heart, according to his desire, was 
embalmed and borne to Rome; his body was carried back 
and buried in his native Ireland. The name of Peel also 
was soon added to the death-list. In tlie blaze of his fame 
and wealth, the horse which he rode threw him and crushed 
him into fragments. While nations waited on his word — 
while artists hung upon his smile — while there were yet 
bright around him glory and genius, and literature and 
luxury, the kindred that loved, and the millions that ap- 
plauded — in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, he was a 
bruised and a lifeless thing. O'Connell and Peel fought 
each other throughout their lives ; both went almost 
together out of earth. Mighty men were both in their day; 
but in the presence of death, the mightiest are nothing, and 
we feel that, as the French preacher said over the corpse 
of Louis XIV., " God alone is great." 

II. In px'oceeding to consider O'Connell as a man of 
public action, I observe a relation between the leading 
events of his life, to changes in the laws which concerned 
Pioman Catholics, that has, I think, more than the interest 
of a merely curious coincidence. O'Connell was born in a 
period when some among the harshest of the penal laws had 
been modified and softened. The cruel portion of the 
code had been generally abolished, but the liumiliating j^or- 



82 Giles' Lectures. 

tiou of it was still in force. The birth of O'Connell had 
preceded by a few months the declaration of American 
independence. There was need of soldiers ; there was cor- 
responding need to conciliate the Irish, and the laAvs were 
accordingly ameliorated — so far, at least, that, b}'' the time 
O'Connell was thirteen, a Roman Catholic might go publicly 
to school. But university education Avas still denied him, 
and for this he was obliged to go abroad. In the mean 
time the French Revolution broke out ; and then again a 
need for advanced conciliation of the Irish. Roman Catho- 
lics obtained the elective franchise, and were admitted to 
the legal profession. O'Connell became a lawyer. Still his 
religion would have excluded him from the bench — from 
every governmental office at the bar — from all honorary dis- 
tinctions; ho could never hope to change his stuff gown for 
a silk one; he must bend himself to hard work; he must be 
content with fame — and fees. At last, a Roman Catholic 
could enter Parliament. We notice, in tracing this course, 
that fi"om entrance on life till entrance on its decline, the 
successive changes of the law just enabled O'Connell to 
take one step at a time to the completeness of emancipated 
citizenship. He was among the earliest in the first public 
school open to Catholics; he was among the earliest of 
Catholics called to the bar ; and ere the bolts had been yet 
drawn, ho was already waiting at the door of Parliament. 
This succession of experiences could not have been in vain 
for O'Connell. Such exiDcriences must have had passionate 
meanings for him ; they must have entered into the very 
spirit of his life, and, from one stage to another, the}' 
must have trained him for his work, and trained him in it. 
He was born in the right hour ; and he was the right man. 
A generation earlier, his life would have been too soon ; 
with all his native vigor — with all his indignant ambition — 
with all his ijinate force of genius, the laws would have been 



Daniel O'ConncIL 83 

too strong for him, and liis would have been an unheard-ol 
grave in the cemetery of a foreign convent, or in a church 
yard among the Kerry mountains. Born under those hiws, 
O'Connell hved to see the hxst of them ; but even then, it 
was at the cost of a struggle — long, constant, and obstinate. 
In this struggle O'Connell spent the vigor of his life. But 
what were these laws of which we hear so uiuch, and 
without reference to which the social characteristics of 
modern Ireland can neither be explained nor under- 
stood ? I offer a very condensed abstract of their leading 
provisions. A Roman Catholic could not inherit real 
estate ; he could not purchase it ; it could not be pur- 
chased or held in trust for him ; and the estate that he 
would have by entail went to the next Protestant heir, as if 
the Romtin Catholic were dead. A Roman Catholic could 
not have a lease for more than thirty-one years, and if 
the profits of such lease exceeded more than one-third of 
the rent, any Protestant who could prove the fact took 
possession of the property. A Catholic wife, on turning 
Protestant, was allowed an increased jointure. A Roman 
Catholic father could not be guardian to his own child 
under a penalty £500; and a Roman Catholic minor, who 
avowed himself a Protestant, was immediately delivered to 
a Protestant guardian. If one child abjured the Roman 
Catholic religion, though he were the youngest, he inherited 
the whole estate, and even his father had no legal claim on 
it for support. No Roman Catholic could marry a Pro- 
testant, and it was a capital crime for a priest to celebrate 
Buch marriage. Indeed, the fact of merely being a priest 
subjected a man to transportation for life, and, in case of 
return, to death. For a Roman CathoHc to teach a school 
was felony; to aid in sending another abroad to be educated 
in the Roman Catholic rehgion, subjected the parties to a 
fine, disabled them from being executors or administrators, 



84 Giles' Lectures. 

from taking any legacy or gift, from holding any office, from 
suing in law or equit}-, to a forfeiture of all their chattels, 
and of all their real estate for hfe. No Ivoman Catholic Avas 
eligible to any civil oi' military office, to sit in Parliament, 
or to vote at elections. If Protestants lost property in war 
by the privateers of a Catholic power, Catholics alone were 
to make it good. That these laws should not be evaded 
by mere passiveness, not to attend the Established Church — 
not, in fact, to be actively Protestant — exposed the indi- 
vidual to odious privations and to exorbitant fines. 

Those laws were all enacted in Ireland, and by legislators 
who claimed to be Irishmen. They were the code of an 
Irish, and not of an English Parliament ; and they have 
evidently in them a spirit of vindictive and of local hatred. 
They go beyond all the severities and restraints which a 
governing minority, in fear and self-defence, impose on a 
subjected population. "If,"sa3'S Arthur Young, "such a 
system as would crush the minds of a conquered people 
into slavish submission was ever necessary, it must have 
been under that new and in many respects weak establish- 
ment, when the late conliict might have been an apparent 
justification ; but why such a system should be embraced 
six or seven years after the death of King "William, is not 
so easy to be accounted for." The reasons for these laws lie 
more deeply than Arthur Young examined, and for their 
object they were not so senseless as he considered them. 
There was more in them than even the zeal of religious 
persecution, and more than the immediate passion of 
military success ; there was a profound energy of angry 
vengeance — an evident desire to show contempt, as well as 
to inflict pain. From the time of Queen Elizabeth, the laws 
were harsh ; but still, the Catholics of Ireland had wealth, 
and no small share of power. Even after Cromwell, the 
Catholics had something to lose, both in property and 



Dan id. O'ConncU. Sf) 

social emineuce. It was not until after the siege of Limer 
iclc, and even the death of AVilliam, that the laws against 
i\\(i Catholics of Ireland assumed their utmost iicrceness. 
There was not merely the ordinary bitterness of domestic 
strife, civil and religious, to make them so, but there came 
among the soldiers of William — many of whom shared in 
the spoils of confiscation — the French Huguenot, furious at 
the revocation of the Edict of Nantz ; the Dutch Calvinist, 
always in power, cruel, and from his memories of Spain, 
steeped in hereditary aversion to Catholics ; other ad- 
venturers, who were merely unprincipled hirelings of the 
sword ; all these iinited, put their evil dispositions into 
statxites, and gave to their worst passions the authority of 
laws. But there was more than passion in these laws ; 
there was purpose — compact, settled, systematic jiurpose — 
that purpose was, either to abolish the lloman Catholic 
religion in Ireland, or to reduce the lloman Catholics 
themselves to absolute serfdom. The laws failed, from the 
outset, in the case of religion; but with regard to the other 
alternative, they came near to being successful. They were 
admirably contrived to Avork out a people's degradation ; 
for, in the first place, they tended efl'ectually to make them 
poor, and as effectually, in the second, to make them 
ignorant. Rendered landless not only as to proprietorship, 
but even as to secure tenancy; shut out directly from many 
mechanical trades ; shut out from the guilds and corpora- 
tions, with which were connected all the gainful and in- 
fluential modes of industry; ineligible to every ollicie and 
profession that could excite or keep alive ambition, law 
to the utmost of its power made poverty the inevitable 
condition of Roman Catholics — universal, perpetual, igno- 
minious povert3\ There was no possibility allowed by law 
for the poor Catholic to rise ; and the rich Catholic, 
excluded from all honorable activity, deprived of the means 



8G Giles' Lectures. 

of increasing, of securing, of transmitting, almost of using 
his wealth, must cither quit the country, or sink down, as 
many of the aristocratic Catholics did, into common serfdom. 
Still a man may be poor in worldly substance, and yet be 
rich in the spirit of his mind. Leave a man art and letters, 
he still has imperishable treasures. He has the sense of his 
human dignity left, and this can support him against many 
a painful humiliation. Thus the Jews sustained themselves 
through long ages of oppression ; they had their- language 
and their literature ; much as they were wronged, I do not 
remember that, by the code of any nation, they could be 
hanged for teaching or learning Hebrew, for expounding 
the Prophecies, or for chanting the Psalms. They had 
stiU the refuge, not only of their faith, but of their intellect. 
Take from a man the culture of the intellect, then you make 
him poor indeed. Impoverish a man, you certainly do him 
evil ; but close to him the avenues of thought and knowl- 
edge, you blind him to the hght of light — you attack him 
in his life of life. , Whom do Christian writers rate as the 
deadliest persecutor of all the Roman emperors? The 
mild and cultivated Julian. Yet Julian put no Christian 
to the cross — gave no Christian to the beasts; ho merely 
forbade Cln-istians to learn, and shut them out from the 
schools. Even Gibbon, his eulogist, shows that no more 
fatal injury could have been imagined or contrived. But 
Julian soon died, and his purpose died with him. The laws 
in Ireland, which improved on Julian's malice, remained, 
and for more than two generations were not inoperative. 
The letter of these laws, it may be said, was not in force ; 
it was not because it could not ; but their spirit was not 
inactive or without result. It kept the people from wealth ; 
it kept the people from education ; it kept the people from 
the moans of education ; it broke their spirit ; bowed 
Ihom down into submission, and wont far to oxtinguisli 



Daniel (yCoiimlJ. S7 

in Ihem fcir over tlio lilo of iiulcpoiulcMii, juanhood. 
This is the truth, and thcro is iiothiug to bo giiiiiod in 
denying or concealing it. Head the pamphlets and spoochos 
of those times, and you cannot but fool to what social 
degradation the Catholics of Ireland wero reduced. Swift, 
in his iiolitical and polemical writings, always refers to the 
condition of the Catholic Irish as that of the lowest and the 
most hopeless submission. And this was su(^h as Swift 
approved ; such as from prin(!iplo and iuc.liiiation, ho would 
counsel, conilrni, and perpetuate. For the physical desti- 
tution which ho l)(!lu!ld around liini, ho had a sort of savr.go 
pity; ho would willingly have relieved tlie distressed, and 
ho was zealous for the general prosperity of the country; 
but if a proposal wero possible, in his day, to extend civic 
freedom to the Catholics of Ireland, or oven religious toler- 
ation. Swift would have been the llrst to denounco it with 
all tlu! lierceness of his temper, and wil.li all tlio vigor of 
his genius. What IMacaulay says is, therefore, to tho letter 
true: "Tho domination of the (iolonists was al)soluto. Tlio 
native population was trancpiil willi (.ho ghastly trancpiiUity 
of exhaustion aiul despair." " Scattered," as ho again ob- 
serves, "all over Europe wero to be found brave Irish 
generals, dexterous Irish diplomatists, Irish counts, Irish 
l)arons, Irish knights of St. Lewis, of St. Leopold, of the 
White Eagle, and of the Golden Eleece, who, if they had 
remained in tho house of bondage, could not have boon 
ensigns in a marching regiment, or freemen of petty corpor- 
ations. These men, the natural chiefs of their race, having 
boon withdrawn, what remained was utterly and helplessly 
passive. A rising of tho Irishry against tlio Englisliry was 
no more to bo dreaded than a rising of wonuni and children 
against tho men." Lord Macaulay is oftcm figurative and 
llorid ; l)ut in these statein(!nts he is exactly lilcraJ and 
(■■■iniple. ('ailiolics wer(^ sli.",lilly regarded in ilic discussions 



88 Giles' Lectures. 

of tlie Irish Parliament ; and wlieuever a Catholic ven- 
tured to put his grievances into printed appeal or explana- 
tion, his manner, was cautiously moderate — almost, indeed, 
shrinkingly timid. So late as 1781, when the heroic Henry 
Grattan arose and shook the nation with his eloquence, his 
power was not by means of Catholics, but by means of 
liberal Protestants ; his agitation in favor of Catholics was 
not as their representative, but as their advocate ; and the 
brief parliamentary independence which Grattan conquered 
was through the short-lived passion of a merely Protestant 
nationality. Even Lord Charlemont, so much loved and 
lauded, refused his consent to let Catholics have the elective 
franchise ; and to the last hour of his hfe he was ojiposed 
to Catholic emancipation. The Catholic commonalty was 
inert ; and Wolfe Tone alleges, in his Memoirs, that " the 
Catholic aristocracy was not only quiescent, but subser- 
vient." " Such an effect," he remarks, " had the operation 
of the penal laws on the Catholics of Ireland — as proud a 
race as any in all Europe." Arthur Young's testimon}- is 
to the same effect. The edition of his Travels in Ireland 
to which I refer, is a Dublin one, printed in 1780. Physi- 
cally, indeed, the people were not so badly off, as frequently 
they have been since ; they had then a humble plenty, 
which in later years they had often sorrowful occasion to 
regret ; but socially, their state in some respects was worse 
than serfdom. 

Such had been the Ireland which was just receding 
behind O'Connell's youth. The Ireland was not quite so 
dark on which his working manhood entered, but still it 
called for a giant's toil. O'Connell had not merely to 
arouse a people — he had, first of all, to create a people. 
Having created a people, he had to shape its instincts — to 
direct and rule them. Hannibal is esteemed the greatest 
of generals, not because he gained victories, but because he 



Daniel (yCon/ic//. 85) 

iniulo ill! arinj'. O'Coiniel], for ilio same I'ea.soii, luii.sl 1)0 
considered auioiig the lirst of legislators — not bccansG lie 
Avon triumphs, but because ho made a people. The people, 
whom ho called up almost from death, he had not only to 
Avork u)i, but to work hij ; first, ho Avorkcd hi/ them to over- 
come the apathy of Catholic aristocracy; and, secondly, ho 
worked l»j them to overcome the combined forces of anti- 
C^atholic resistance. In teaching the people to know their 
own power, and to show it, he presented motives of action 
to the interest, the ambition, and the genius of those who 
were on their side ; in the degree that he thus united 
minds and masses — in the degree that ho added all moral 
and social energies to the inlluenco of luimbers, he nuulo 
opposition formidable to the prudence, the policy, and the 
fears of those who were against them. 

O'Connell seemed singularly fitted to his mission and his 
time. The Rebellion of 1708 was scarcely quelled, when he 
appeared. The heaving swell Avas yet rocking societ}', and 
the blood-red clouds had not passed from the moral atmos- 
phere. Tears Avere yet falling from unsleeping eyes, and 
the desolate yet mourned Avith a gi-ief that Avould not bo 
comforted. The convulsion of the French Revolution Avas 
still agitating Europe, and not with the less force because all 
its elements had converged their power Avithin the person- 
ality of Napoleon's stupendous mind. The cannons of 
Napoleon boomed through the sky from the Danube to the 
Nile ; and mingled Avith the din of conquest Avere the 
shouts of peoples and the crash of thrones. War on the 
sea Avas not less fierce than war on the land. Jiritain was 
sweeping the ocean Avith her lleets ; Nelson Avas tiring fame 
Avith the rapid succession of his victories, until, at last, his 
career Avas closed in the ecstasy of battle. While these 
terrible men shone amidst the gloomy majesty of war, 
O'Connell, too, had visions of renown, but they arose from 



90 Oiks' Lcrfiors. 

tlie anticipated acliievements of humanity and poacc. A 
crisis liad conio iu the history of his country, and ho was 
tlic man to meet it. Ho ^Yas the only man. Curran, as an 
advocate, had bravely done his melancholy duty, and there 
was no more that ho could do. Grattan, as a senator, was 
not silent, but ho was disheartened. But had both been 
in their prime of genius and of hope, neither of them had 
fitness for the mission of O'Connell. The millions for whom 
the battle was fought were Roman Catholics ; it was there- 
fore meet that the leader who commanded should be one 
of themselves ; and O'Connell was the greatest lloman 
Catholic genius who had yet arisen in Ireland since the 
Siege of Limerick. But O'Connell was not only a great 
Catholic, ho was a great man — great in all the qualities 
which his situation demanded. A man of reflection, yet of 
decision ; of boldness, but of prudence ; ever fertile in 
resources, ever master of his faculties, the hour and the 
difficulty found him at no time unprepared. His words 
were daggers, yet not libels ; and while passion burned in 
his heai't, caution kept watch upon his lips. He instructed 
the Irish masses to exhibit strength without using it ; to 
nullify bad laws without transgressing them ; and to gather 
the fruits of conquest witliout the risks of wai'. O'Connell, 
like Carnot, organized victory; Carnot's was the organiza- 
tion of force, and O'Connell's was the organization of 
opinion. . The labor which O'Connell went through was 
gigantic. That which O'Connell did has been underrated, 
because of that which he did not. But if we contrast tlie 
political condition of Ireland as O'Connell found it, with 
the political condition of Ireland as he left it, we shall see 
how grand and successful he was in his politic;il agitation. 
He found an oligarchy that seemed unapproachable in the 
height of its ascendancy, impregnable in the strength of its 
position ; he fronted its arrogance, delied its power, pulled 



Dan id O'Conndl. \)\ 

down its pride, swopt away it« privilc^^cs, and f,a-()Uiid its 
monopoly into atoms. Ho found tho Catholic peasantry 
serfs, he made them free ; ho found tho middle-class timid 
and dependant, ho stirred them into couraj^o — he raised 
tliom into citizens ; he found the Catholic aristcK-i'acy tiiiic- 
Bervers or idlers, and ho shamed them into dignity. YA'v.vy 
Catholic, hig-h or humble, had been mado an alien C)ii his 
own native Ireland ; O'Coiniell re.stoi'ed him io liin ])lu(;o 
in the commonwealth ; and if he did not arouse, or caro 
to arouse, tho spirit of national independence, he did very 
effectually that of personal and political independence. 
After a long sleep of submission, he called up millions to 
tho desire for freedom. Surely this, for one man, was 
a great work. And yet O'Connell did not die in time. 
Men there are in history who, dying at a certain time, 
would leave on us tho impression of immeasurable genius, 
but who, Ijy surviving tho turn of their fortunes, lose 
l)y comparison with themselves — for with themselves wo 
still compare them ; and while we diminish our estimate, 
we seem to foi-get how great they must be, since we think 
never of comparing them with others. For this reason, 
Charles XII., of Sweden, should never have survived Pul- 
towa ; Napoleon should have died soon after Austerlitz ; 
O'Connell should have died after he had gained Catholic 
Emancipation, and made his first and best speeches in the 
House of Commons. If he had thus and then died, hia 
genius as a popular leader must have Ijcen a tlieme oi 
wonder even to opponents, and tho manner of dealing with 
his memory would have been tliat of admiration, and not 
that of criticism. As it is, the world sliows hardly another 
man who has singly done so much as O'Connell, and l^y 
merely moral and intellectual means. 

III. To estimate O'Connell as a speaker, would in itself 
alone require a lecture; and here it must Ite attempted 



92 Giles' Lectures. 

in a fragment. Sucli a lecture would Lave three natural 
divisions : O'Connell as a lawyer, as a legislator, and as a 
popular tribune; or O'Connell as speech revealed him at 
the bar, in Parliament, and in the open assembly of the 
people. On the first two positions, I miist be brief ; but 
this is of less account since it is in the third O'Connell had 
superlative and characteristic distinction. 

That O'Connell was able at the bar we might safely infer. 
"NVe know that he was industrious, studious, and ambitious ; 
that he had much knowledge of men, as they live in the 
world; that he had instinctive talent in the acquirement of 
this knowledge — talent improved by practice and oppor- 
tunity; that he had an athletic understanding, much sen- 
sibility, imagination, and gi-eat force of passion ; that he 
had caution, coolness, and extraordinary powers of labor 
and endurance; that he entered the profession of a barrister 
with the education of a scholar; and that, along with all, he 
had the genius which spontaneously brings thought, feeling, 
and word into the unity and music of expression, which we 
call eloquence. Such qualifications meeting in one jDcrson, 
would have made him a good general lawyer, would have 
made him also a siiccessful advocate; and such qualifications 
did meet in O'Connell. We are not, however, left to infer- 
ence; we have the evidence of fact. The best opinion we can 
give of a lawyer is to employ him. Orangemen constantly 
employed O'Connell; and they were his political, if not his 
personal enemies. O'Connell, as an advocate, was often 
called on to defend journals which the most opposed him. 
" Oh ! a broguish Irish fellow, who would listen to him ?" 
said an English snob once, in conversation with Sir Robert 
Peek " If I wanted," replied Sir Robert, " an eloquent 
advocate, I would readily give up all the other orators of 
whom we have been speaking, provided I had with me this 
same broguish Irish fellow." O'Connell was universally 



Daniel O'Connell. 93 

recognized as the leading advocate, and the best general 
lawyer of his time. He was especially great in all jury 
cases. He had a singular power of making juries averse to 
himself personally, and politically favorable to his case and to 
his client. He seemed even to have some art by which he 
turned that aversion to account, and made it subservient to 
the purpose of his argument. He did often, no doubt, 
insinuate scruples in the minds of conscientious jurors 
politically opposed to him, which made them fear, particu- 
larly when conviction was capital, to give a verdict of 
" guilty," lest it might be the foregone conclusion of pr(!Ju- 
dice, and not the solemn decision of justice. But most 
singular of all, O'Connell could not only conceal his opinion 
of the jurors, but make them suppose it the contrary of 
what it was. I once heard him before a Cork jury defend- 
ing men tried for seditious consjiiracy. The jury were 
strong Tory Protestants — the prisoners strong anti-Tory 
Catholics. As I knew the jury, I had small hope for the 
prisoners. But as O'Connell advanced in a most ingenious, 
concihating, and pathetic speech, I fancied myself in error 
both as to the character of the jurors and the fate of the 
arraigned. The jurors, as I thought, were not the men I 
took them for — men who would find a fragment of treason 
in the paring of a Papist's nail, and the essence of disloyalty 
in every hair of O'Connell's wig ; they were evidently moved; 
" tears were in their eyes ; all their visage wanned ;" I set 
them down as just, generous, impartial men ; and I entirely 
believed that so did O'Connell. After a short charge and 
brief absence, they came back with a verdict of "guilty." 
O'Connell tui*ned towards them with a look of such mock 
reverence, and such real derision, as it is impossible to de- 
scribe, and said, " Gentlemen, it is just what I expected 
from you." In dealing with witnesses, O'Connell was equally 
a master. In general he was cautious, civil, even polite ; 



94 di/cx' Lirhars. 

but in i'ross-o\;iiuiii;i(ion of nn iurornuM*, Avliom lio \v;is 
siiro of bivakiii';- l^o^Yn, Ihoro \V!is an exhibit ion of tho coinio 
iiud Iho loniblo. It. was a sort of ligt'v-i^lay, in which a 
niiinlcvous ]HM-juror !s<H"Mu\1 iho object of doaillv sport. 
()\'oniioll liioktHl amiable ; tho iiifonncH' h>okod anj^'vy. 
O't'onm^ll puUod at his wis;" and sniilod ; tho infornior 
troniblod. 0'C\n\noll booanio droll; tho inl'ornior in tho 
nii^an time tuvnod art>und, as if ho wore sookiuj^- for osoapo. 
A\'ilh O'Oounoll tlioro was meaning in every gesture — tluM-(> 
was purpose in every motion— there was fatal valeulation in 
t^vtM-y tpiestion. The people laughed, but the lauglrtei" was 
titful and spasmodic. Thoro was interest too awful for 
mirth dependent on tho is^no; and when, at last, O'Connell 
gave the blow, which he delayed only in iMilor to strike with 
eertainty — the blow which snioto to death the prosecuting 
testimony — a burst of relief eame from the audience, and tho 
choor (hat disturbed tho forms of tlio court was the instinct 
of joy at tho saving of innocent lives. I was witness of such 
a. strngi;lo botwoon O'Oonnell and an infonuer, and tho 
shout which hailed tho lawyer's triumph was sui-h as bursts 
from the pent-up feelings of a crowd that watches a strong 
Kwinnner, bulVoting with stornn- waves to rescue a fellow- 
creature fnnn their depths, when lie has bounded on ilry 
land with his human brother living in his gras]\ 

No one, however, denied that (VOonnell was a groat 
advocate; neither did any deny that ho spoke with wondiM- 
ful t^lVeet to a multitude; but nuiuy insisted that he would 
miserably fail in Tarlianu^nt. Very great lawyers, very 
great denuigogues, even very groat men, have failed in Vnv- 
lianiint. O'Connell did »(>/ fail there; nay, Ihere wcvo some 
o( his most distinguished triumphs. He was not, as his 
ttl^ponents prophesied he would be, alarmed or overmatched; 
on the I'ontrary, he at once took a commanding position iu 
the House, ojioned there for himself a new sphere of fame, 



Daniel, ()'('(mmlL 1)5 

.'1)1(1 wjiH li.sl.(!)ic(l to iiK mucli {(If l,Ii(! (Icli^'lil, wliicli lio gavo 
l)y liJH ij;(:\i\uH iiH i\)V tlio jndiicrico vvliicli ucc.oinpaiiicd liiw 
void. SIJll, ()'(J()iiii(:ll JiiiH h(;(;u C(jij!ilcd or cxcc.WcaI id ilio 
bill- ;i,ii(| in l',irli;uiH!iil,; in llu! po])nliir a«HCmb]y, Ik; Iuih iioi, 
ill iiiodcni iiiiicH, Ijcon upproucliod. Now, wliou I way tluH, 
.1 do jioi iiKJiin that O'Coriiicll had riH;f(,']y ilio rudo and 
i(;ady ialcjnt which many Bocni to think in all tliat in nccoK- 
Hary to f,'aiii ov(;r inidtitudoH — the victorioH of Hpcodi. 
()'(jonnoll wan jiot rndx;; and rudonoKH in itHcIf iH novcir 
])o\v<!r. ()'(Jonn(;]l jiovor wj-oto a Bpooch, and ho did ii<jt 
ol'lcii niako a net (n-ation. IHh Hpoaking, compared with 
Hiicli formal oflbrtH, waH as a f,'rand sweep of country in to a 
little Ijit of well-trimmed llower-f,'arden. 'J'lie metliod ot 
(V(Jo)inell waH that of nature, yet iKjt eiitir<;ly without art — 
an ai-t that waH all his own- not of laodelH, bo(;kH, or rulew. 
Directly or renu^tel}', he made everythin<( he naid KvibKer- 
vieiit t(^ his design ; and wiiile to the Htoj)-wat(;h critic jio 
mi;,dit seem tlio least an orator, he wan best Hecuriii}.; the 
HiicceHH of oratory. O'Ccjimell f,'ave liimKclf nioKt to multi- 
tiidrjH, becaUKC it Avas Ijy their meaiiH h(; could best f;l;tain 
liiH ol>ject; and always for an ojjject (J'Cojinell Kpf;ke — never 
for the wake of oratory or iov its piaiKc. For such lie cared 
but little. Like every man of practical and maHsivo gcniuH, 
his mind was intent upon an end; and to that his speech 
was merely incidental. He was no mere rhetoi'ician; he 
was a leader, he was a ruler, and language was only an 
iiiHt)umentality t<j his power, if he was ready, it was with 
the readiness whicli intelhjctual vigilance and constant 
industry bestow. His industry ho never relaxed. Study 
was an essential i)art of his industry — a part which no fame 
or power caused him to neglect. When f)thers were yet 
dancing into daylight, he was to be found of wintry morn- 
ings in his libraiy- not merely ]>repariiig for th(; battles of 
the day, but for the battle!; of the age. TIk; fruit of such 



96 Giles' Lectures. 

application was not only various and solid acquirements, 
professional and general, but also confidence in himself, a 
secure versatility, and a fearless aptitude. O'Connell was 
not superficial. He spoke much frequently, and on a great 
variety of subjects; but he never spoke at random; he never 
depended on his reputation ; he never taxed indulgent 
partiality ; he never went beyond his distinct ideas. He 
always left the impression that he had mastered the mat- 
ter which he handled, and had more and better things 
to say. The mental elasticity which has not been trained 
into culture, is mere flippancy ; the boldness which has 
not security in knowledge, is but reckless impudence, 
an uncertain guesswork, or a desperate leaping into dark- 
ness. So it never was with O'Connell. From childhood, he 
was assiduous in the disciphne of his faculties. Separately 
and in combination, he nurtured the strength of each and 
all. He learned to master and direct this strength at will ; 
to be prepared for every emergency; to leave nothing to 
chance, and to venture nothing upon risk. He was intellec- 
tually constant in observance and acquirement. The demands 
of his position were ever present to his attention, and, from 
sustained exercise, his mind had formed the habit of being 
at the same time active and meditative. There need but 
the contact and the impulse to elicit from such a mind the 
flash that dazzles and the bolt that kills. This is no sudden 
accident, no surjDrise of happy chance, but the natural effect 
of cultivated power. And this power, too, was, in O'Connell, 
a cultivated personality. O'Connell, the man, was in all 
that he spoke. His knowledge mingled with his nature, 
and made part of it. All that he got from reading — all that 
he learned from men — all that he was by nationahty, passion, 
prejudice, or circumstance, entered into the living identity 
out of which he spoke. 

O'ConncU was in every way made for a great tribune. 



Daniel O^Connell. 97 

Of commanding height and sohd breadth of body — with 
elevated head, open face, cleai", piercing eye, a full, sweet 
voice, imperturbable cheerfulness, ready Avit, vernacular 
expression, and earnest address — in thought, forcible and 
direct — in passion, kindly or angry, as the case might be — 
in impulse ever-varying, from the whisper of emotion to the 
tempest of excitement, from the hush of prayer to the rage 
of indignation — O'Connell, as he willed, ruled a popular 
assembly. He put positions into broad, brief, and homely 
statements ; he clinched them with pertinent instances, and 
then he let them take their chance. He dealt much in 
aphorism, proverb, anecdote. He ever and ever changed 
his topic and his manner ; and joke, story, insinuation, 
sarcasm, pathos, merriment, a lofty burst of passion, a bold 
personality, indignant patriotism, or subdued, conciliating 
persuasion, came in quick succession — so that all within 
hearing of his rich, strong, musical voice, became uncon- 
cious of fatigue, and wished only the enchantment to 
continue. He was never boisterous, was not often even 
vehement ; and though he could, and frequently did, rise to 
transcendentally figurative and impassioned speech, his 
general matter consisted in simple and earnest argument, 
in vigorous and homely sense. 

It is true that the popular assemblies which O'Connell 
was accustomed to address were Irish, and that Irish 
multitudes are susceptible and impassioned is also true. 
O'Connell had naturally his first school among such multi- 
tudes, and a most excellent school it was. No other multi- 
tudes can be so electrified by flashes of emotion, or can be 
so aroused by the expression of a sentiment. They are quick 
to every allusion of tenderness ; and to wit, humor, and 
melancholy, they are alive in every fibre. Irish assemblies 
are not critical, but sympathetic. Eloquence is the child of 
confidence ; and therefore it is that eloquence springs up in 

5 



08 Giles' Lectures. 

Irish assemblies as a native instinct. O'Connell in all such 
assemblies was an incarnation of the Irish soul. His genius 
was the genius of the nation, and faithfully it gave ex- 
pression to the native mind of Ireland. One moment in 
jest and banter, sparkhng like the streauilets in Irish glens ; 
in another, like a tempest amidst Irish mountains ; now 
soft as a song to the Irish harp ; deep as the wind upon 
an Irish heath ; again mournful as waves around the Ii'ish 
shores. .The people felt their being in the personality of 
O'Connell ; the sorrow of the past and its anger ; the love 
of their country and its afflictions. They felt this in words 
plain to their intellect, in a poetry bold as their hopes, and 
in a prophecy as wild as their enthusiasm. 

Yet O'Connell's sway as an orator was not limited to an 
Irish multitude. I heard him in Scotland, when his triumph 
was as complete as it could have been in Ireland, and more 
splendid in its circumstances. He stood on Calton Hill, 
which overlooks the City of Edinburgh. The sky was clear 
and blue, and a mellowed sunlight spread afar and along 
upon flood and mountain. Some tens of thousands ranged 
themselves on the side of the hill, and gazed upon the stal- 
wart man from Ireland. The city lay below them — the city 
of palaces — the city of romance and story — the city of 
Mar}', of Knox, of Scott — the city of heroic memories and 
of resplendent genius. The j)anoramic vision stretched 
into the infinite, through glory and lovehness ; and the 
eye strayed over frith, and lake, and brae, and highland, 
until the heart was dazzled and drunk with beauty. To 
this sublime scenery O'Connell pointed, and opened with 
an earnest eulogium upon Scotland. The Palace of Holy- 
rood was beneath. He called up the shade of Bruce, and 
quoted Burns. He glorified the beauty of Scottish women, 
and the bravery of Scottish men. He said to the women 
that he would tell their sisters beyond the Channel that 



Daniel OX'omiell. 09 

the daughters of Scotland could feel for the woes of Ireland. 
He dwelt with enthusiasm on the independence which 
Scotland liad always maintained — giving sovereigns, but 
receiving none, and allowing no foreign king to keep his 
foot upon her heathered hills. He spoke of the Covenant- 
ers, whoso dust made the soil which held it consecrated 
ground. He did homage to the sanctity of conscience for 
which these heroic men had fought, prayed, and died. He 
then turned with an eloquent despondency to Ireland. He 
pictured the long, the hard, the desolate sway of the op- 
pressor — the humiliation which for centuries had crushed 
his countrymen, who, never Avilling to be slaves, had always 
vainly struggled to be free. He enl^ged on the charms of 
his native land and her miseries — on the loss of her Parlia- 
ment — the waste of her energies — the decline of her nation- 
ality, and the sinking of her heart and hope. Then he 
gradually arose to more cheerful strains, and closed in the 
rapture of jubilant and exultant prophecy. After three 
hours he was silent ; then the collected enthusiasm of that 
sublime mass burst into one loud shout ; it rent the skies 
with its boomings, and rolled in long-sounding echoes 
through the rocks and hills. 

IV. I had hoped that, when I came to speak of O'Connoll 
in relation to character, I should be able to do so with 
fulhiess of illustration ; but some disjointed hints are all 
that time will now permit. O'Connell, like every man of 
powerful activity, was strikingly individual. He was en- 
tirely himself, and it was evident that he had the strongest 
sense of self. A certain O'Connellism was noticeable in th« 
very curls of his wig, in the cut of his cap, in the disj)osal 
of his cloak, in the whole air of his person — in every move- 
ment, in every gesture. The emanation of a strong interior 
personality gave character to his face, his body, and his 
motions. Wc may be told in general terms, that he was tah, 



100 Gilcn' Lectures. 

large, bulky ; that he had stout hmbs and broad shoulders ; 
that his face was fresh and comely; that his brow was 
ample ; that his eye was gray, quick, and jiiei-cing ; that in 
his look and walk there was a combination of plebeian force 
and kingly freedom ; but until we have infused the whole 
with what I have called O'GonneUism, v>q have no image 
even of the outward man. We must see in the big body 
the struggling soul of a great agitator. The face that seems 
placid at a distance, reveals, as we look more closeljj, 
thoughts of discontent, which only lean men are said to 
have. Sternness, even melancholy, is seen in those features 
wherein we had fancied onl}' smiles ; and in that gray eye, 
which, to the passing ^ook, seems to sparkle with merriment 
and mischief, are observable, to a more careful gaze, depths 
that reach down to passions into which had come the anger 
and the grief of centuries. 

O'Connell was no less national than individual. Perhaps 
we might more correctly say that nationahty was incorpor- 
ated, identified with his individual consciousness. To 
think, speak, act, was to him to live in the life of Ireland. 
Therein he "must either live or have no life." There can 
be no doubt that O'Connell loved Ireland, and that in all 
his measures he contemjilated her interest and her glory. 
If he accepted in his later years a munificent income, he 
gave up a lai'ge one in giving up his practice. The revenue 
which he received was gratefully contributed. O'Connell 
spent it generously ; hoarded nothing ; died poor, and to 
his family left little but his fame. Some have had doubts 
of his faith in Eepeal : those who were nearest to him had 
no such doubts. His most intimate companions assert that 
he not only regarded the return of the Irish Parliament as 
practicable, but as certain — not only as certain, but as near. 

All individualism and nationality, to be otherwise than 
cynical or bigoted, must belong to a chai'acter of cordial 



Da/ltd O'Co/me/f. 10 1 

humanity — must be alive to its affections, its charities, and 
its rights. As to the affeclions of humanit}^, no one can 
accuse O'ConncU as having been wanting in tliem. Some 
of O'ConneU's allusions to his family in his public speeches 
might have exposed him to jocular criticism, if it v/erc not 
iov the luve m them that immediately won men's better 
feelings, and those gleams of domestic sunshine which often 
threw a gracious illumination over the arid spaces of politi- 
cal discussion. The friends who were the most with O'Con- 
nell, and who knew the most of him, were the most attached 
to him. O'Connell had that tendency to sing which belongs 
to kindly natures and to genial tempers. He was constantly 
breaking out into snatches of ancient song — sometimes from 
an English ballad, sometimes from a Latin hymn. He 
dehghted in hearing and telling old stories. He had that 
love for children which is ever an instinct of tender and 
of noble hearts. He had, too, that generous reverence for 
woman which brave and honorable men always feel ; and 
passages are in his speeches so inspired with this sen- 
timent as to rise to the poetry of eloquence. He was 
hospitable ; and in the harmony of his household festivities, 
he was glad to forget the contests of the world. I will not 
dare to say so much for the spirit of O'ConneU's public 
speeches as I have said for that of his private intercourse. 
Yet even here we must not judge too sternly. O'ConneU's 
position was between extremes. He was a man the most 
applauded, and a marf the most decried — a man in all Chris- 
tendom the most loved and the most hated; and if he was, 
as he himself said, "the best abused man in Europe," it 
must also be admitted that he was the best abuser. But, 
with few exceptions, there was nothing sardonic or satanic in 
the political combats of O'Connell. Even his abuse had a 
sort of buoyant exaggeration that made it almost kindly. 
Besides, in these combats, O'Connell was too sure of victory 



102 Giles' Lectures. 

to be malicious. He had an intellectual enjoyment, a liappy 
self-satisfaction, ^Yllicll always kept his spirit in them free 
from rancor. One night, as Lord Lyndhurst was in the fall 
career of an eloquent tirade against O'Connell, O'Connell 
himself entered the House of Lords. The noble orator was 
climbing to the pinnacle of a climax, and reached it by ap- 
plying to the Liberator the famous apostrophe of Cicero to 
Catiline. ""What do j'ou think of that?" said a friend to 
O'Connell. "Oh, simply as it should be," replied O'Con- 
nell ; " I have just come from the Freemason's Tavern, 
where I have been abusing him. It is only tit for tat, and 
turn about is fair play." Most of O'Connell's attacks were 
in this spirit of reciprocity ; and though he did sometimes 
apply an epithet or phrase which burned inelfaceably into 
his opponent's memory, and which, when dead, might 
be found stamped upon his heart, as Mary of England said 
that '•■ Calais'' would be on hers, it was seldom that such 
invectives much more than repaid their provocation. O'Con- 
nell was never implacable, and it was easy at any time to 
soften or conciliate him. No one was ever more fierccl}', 
or more ably, or more successfully O'Connell's antagonist 
than Lord Stanley, aftcwards Lord Derby. On one occa- 
sion, when O'Connell had spoken in his usual strain on the 
wrongs to Ireland, Lord Stanley asserted that ho was as 
much a friend to Ireland as was O'Connell. "If that bo 
so," replied O'Connell, "you can be no enemy of mine. Let 
our hearts shake hands." 

As to O'Connell's sense of human charities and rights, 
we have every proof which testimony can offer that he 
was merciful, tolerant, liberal; that, morally, socially, and 
politically, ho held in deepest reverence the claims of man. 
He was in the van of every movement that favored liberty, 
or that aimed at the elevation of unfavored multitudes. He 
was opposed to capital punishment; he disliked w'ar. Ho 



Daniel O'Conncll. 10*3 

showed a want of political foresight when ho supposed, as 
he did late iu life, that moral force Avould take the place of 
war. But this says nothing against his moral feeling. Ho 
detested war — not fi'om want of courage or want of manli- 
ness, but from the force of a sympathetic imagination, which 
conceived vividly of war, of its atrocities and miseries. Ho 
never could overleap these to the something beyond on which 
most minds find rest. He had by the necessity of his tem- 
perament to pass through the vision of carnage and death, 
and long before he got near to the other side, ho sickened, 
staggered, and retreated. I need not say that he was an 
enemy to slavery, and that for the zeal with which he de- 
nounced it, he was in turn, throughout America, denounced. 
But all that O'Connell said and did in this cause, he said 
and did in pure and most disinterested principle. He iu no 
narrow struggle for his own creed, forgot his kind ; and his 
greatest exultation was, that every success in contest for the 
right, in favor of any class or people, was still a victory 
gained in the grand battle of universal emancipation. He 
insisted always that man has rights inseparable from his 
nature — rights which lie at the foundation of morals and 
society — rights which cannot be bought, which cannot be 
sold, and which imply as the essential of rational and im- 
mortal manhood — that the individuality of the human person 
can by no law be human property. This logic of spirit, of 
mind, of life, of equity, and of nature, which justified his 
own claims, ho argued, would justify every man in asserting 
the rights of his humanity. The logic which he maintained 
for himself, he applied to all ; for he believed that all had 
in the God-given soul the same divine and eternal title to 
the liberties and dignities of intelligent existence that he 
had. In this conviction he lived and labored ; it was his 
earliest — it was his latest ; he fought its good fight to the 
last, and even unto death he kept its faith. 




JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 

I PEOPOSE to speak to you on the life, character, and 
genius of a great man — I mean John Philpot Curkan. 

I begin Avith some hurried alkisions to the leading events 
of Curran's biography. 

John Philpot Curran was born in 1750, on the 24:th day 
of Jul}', in New Market, a small town iu the County of 
Cork, Ireland. He was the son of James Curran, senes- 
chal of the manor, a minor sort of local magistrate. His 
mother's maiden name was Sarah Philpot. This name en- 
ters into Curran's baptismal designation, and has become 
immortal in his fame. Curran ascribed to his mother his 
inheritance of intellect, and to his father that of a small 
person and of homely features. But his father was a man 
of respectable education, and but for that, Curran's inherit- 
ance of natural gifts, whencesoever it came, might have 
been to little purpose. Of inborn genius, and the son of a 
man well cultivated, it was in the order and the destiny of 
character that he should aspire. 

Aided by the Rev. Nathaniel Boyse, the Protestant clergy- 
man of the place, he was prepared for college. He entered 
the Dublin University as a sizar. He had a good classical 
education, and he was fond of classics to the end of his life. 
In due time he went through his law studies in London. 
Though subjected to severe scarcity of funds, he bore his 
privations with cheerfulness and gayety. Frugal and labo- 



John Philpot Cur ran. 105 

rious, the pleasures and pomp of a great metropolis excited 
in him neither envy nor despondency; and he closed his 
sojourn in it without having contracted either debts or 
vices. Curran married in 1774, and was called to the bar 
in 1775. His practice became rapidly eminent and lucra- 
tive. But his practice in Chancery was impeded early by 
the judge, his political opponent, the Lord ChanceUor Fitz- 
gibbon, Earl of Clare. Curran estimated his aggregate loss 
at £30,000. On grounds political, professional, or personal, 
Curran fought four duels. First, with the Hon. Mr. St. 
Leger, brother to Lord Doneraile ; second, with John Fitz- 
gibbou, the Attorney-General for Ireland ; third, with Major 
Hobart, the Irish Secretary of State ; fourth, with a lawyer 
named Egan. Egan and Curran had been friends. The 
duel arose out of a casual dispute, and is only memorable 
as giving occasion to Curran for one of his witty sallies. 
Egan, a man of huge bulk, complained of the dispropor- 
tionate risk between himself and his antagonist. " Have 
my size," said Curran, " chalked upon yours, and let every 
shot outside it go for nothing." This was in Ireland the 
era of the pistol. 

■ Curran in 1797 closed his pai'hamentary career, and was 
approaching the culmination of his forensic grandeur. 
Curran's eloquence in Parliament has not been ranked with 
liis eloquence in the courts of law. I have no time to ex- 
amine the grounds of the comparison, or the truth of the 
decision. It is enough to say that Curran's character and 
genius are seen as distinct!}' in Parliament as in the courts. 
We see in it, on all occasions, the spirit of manliness, wis- 
dom, and justice broadly and vigorously exhibited. Great 
as has since been the advance of enlargement and of en- 
lightenment in the application of political principles to the 
government of society, it has not yet gone beyond the 
truths which, amidst the clash of factions and in the worst 



106 Giles' Lectures. 

of times, Curran urged, defended, and reiterated. "Wliat- 
ever the most fervent oratory could do, he did, in warn- 
ing, entreaty, threatening, and argument. All in vain. The 
prophet's -words were true, but none would believe their 
report. Ere long the prophecies became facts, in blood, in 
crime; and of all tragedies in history, the record of these 
facts in the struggle of 1798 is one of the most terrible. 
The scorned forebodings of the patriotic and the wise, as 
well as the prudence of their hberal exhortations, were soon 
terribly proved sound by the calamities which followed in 
the deadly battle-field, in the crowded dungeons, in the 
loaded gibbets, in the despairing wretchedness, and in the 
pitiless atrocities with which the neglect of advice and ar- 
gument covered the afflicted kingdom. 

Curran had severe personal and domestic sorrows. The 
abortive attempt at insurrection in 1803, and the murder 
of his friend, Lord Kilwarden, were heavy blows against his 
peace. A heavier blow still was the concealed attachment 
of his daughter for Eobert Emmett, and the tragic close of 
Emmett's lif e ; but the heaviest blow of all was the deser- 
tion of his wife with a profligate clergyman named Sandys, 
after she and her husband had lived for a quarter of a 
century together. She afterwards repented, and was sup- 
ported by Ciirran's bounty. 

In the short-hved Whig ministry of 180G, Curran was 
made a Chancery judge, as Master of the Rolls — an ap- 
pointment which was to him more a grief than a glory, and 
one for which neither his natural genius nor his professional 
experience gave him fitness. The last public speech which 
he ever made was in 1812, as a candidate for the represen- 
tation of Newry in the imperial ParKament. He was de- 
feated — and after that, listening multitudes heard his 
electric voice no more. Three or four years before his 
death, Curran resigned his judicial office; and on the 1 Ith 



John P/dlpot Cwron. 107 

of October, 1817, ho died at Biompton, near London, being 
above sixty-seven years of age. In 1837 his remains were 
removed to Glasuevin, in the suburbs of DubKn, and there 
they rest in his loved and native soil. Choicer ashes than 
Curran's, Irish earth does not contain ; and the fire of more 
impassioned eloquence than his, never inspired human cla}-. 

Like Robert Burns, Curran loved popular sports, and 
was nurtured amidst popular traditions. 

Curran identified himself in feeling, interests, and ob- 
jects with the Irish people ; but ho was peculiarly attached 
to the humbler classes. Ho understood the Irish people in 
their virtues and their vices, in their suilerings, uiid in their 
wrongs. He was their true friend, and if, at times, ho justly 
l)lamed, on all right occasions he as generously praised. 
They in return loved him ; they loved him with an ai'fection 
of admiration and enthusiasm which was no base idolatry, 
but a noble worship. Curran was conscious of this popular 
love to him ; but being conscious also that he deserved it, 
he had nothing in him of the demagogue. His intercourse 
with the people was marked by cordiality and dignity, and 
his demeanor was as simple as his spirit was sincere. His 
personal manners were unpresuming and unpretending. 
He was courteous, with that genuine courtesy which is easy, 
unobtrusive, informal, and that loses the sense of self in 
sympathy with others. Much as he talked, he was never 
his own subject, as most talkers are. In this he was the 
contrast of Erskine, his most celebrated forensic contempo- 
rary. On a certain occasion he administered to this vain 
and great orator a severe rebuke. " Come, come," said 
Erskine once to Curran, "was not Grattan intimidated at 
the idea of a first appearance before the British Parlia- 
ment?" "Indeed, my Lord," answered Curran, "I do not 
think he was, nor do I think he had any reason to be. 
When he succeeded so splendidly with so eloquent and so 



108 Giles' Lectures. 

discriminating a body as the Irish House of Commons, he 
iieed not have apprehended much from any foreign criti- 
cism." "Well, but, Curran, did he not confess he was 
afraid?" insisted Erskine — "did you not hear him say so?" 
"Indeed, my good Lord, I never did. Mr. Grattan is a 
A'ery modest man — he never speaks of himself." 

Curran was the delight of a wide social circle, with which 
he always maintained kindly relations. He was ardent in his 
profession and in politics, but in neither was he vindictive. 
At his own table he was generous ; at the tables of other 
2nen he was genial ; always, he was humorous — rarely, in- 
temperate ; and to the very last, while his mind could 
govern his words, his sayings had the stamp of power. 
Even when mental gloom had shut out for ever the light of 
happiness, and mortal disease took away all hope of health, 
the special originality of his wit and humor did not forsake 
him. Even in the breaking up of nature, there was stiU his 
genius, in its extraordinary^ combination of the serious and 
the gay, of the brilliant and thoughtful soul ; it was still 
there, in its wonderful union of idealism and oddity, of 
irony and sympathj-^ — of the mirth which is bred in the 
heart of melancholy, and of the fancy which relieves de- 
spondency by laughter. Throughout life, Curran's conver- 
sation seems to have given to all that heard it the pleasure 
of constant enchantment and surprise. A sense of wonder 
and delight appears to excite aU who allude to it. 

In obedience to what lecture-hearers expect, I present 
two or three sayings of Curran's out of numbers which 
tradition insists on calling examples of his Avit and humor. 
But I do this almost under protest, for the wit and humor 
of Curran so interveined his mental Ufe, that they cannot 
be illustrated by posthumous dissection, or exhibited in 
bit-and-bit specimens. I may properly — as an Irishman, 
privileged to blunder— begin by showing Curran's humor 



John Philpot Curran. 109 

iu a saying which was not Curran's. It was that of his 
colored servant, who refused to Hve with him any longer. 
Curran wondered why he desired to go, and entreated him 
to stay. " No, massa," said he, " I cannot Hve longer mth 
you; I am losing my health; you make me laugh too much." 
Curran was told that a lawyer, who was dirty in his person 
and sparing of his money, had set out from Dublin to Cork, 
with one shirt and one guinea. "Yes," said Curran, "and 
he will change neither of them till he returns." This saying 
is the carcasm of good humor. Sometimes his sayings 
are whimsical and droll. To this effect was his contest 
with a Cork fish-woman. She was gaining such advantage 
on him, that he was for retreat. But retreat, as Curran 
observes, was to be achieved with dignity. "So, drawing 
myself disdainfully up," he goes on, "I said — Madam, I 
scorn aU further discourse with such an individual." 
"Individual ! you wagabone ! " she exclaimed, " I'm no more 
an individual than your mother was." 

At times his drollei'y is touched with pathos, and merges 
into poetry. One morning, near to Curran's death, the 
doctor observed to him that he coughed with more difficulty 
than he had on the preceding evening. " That is very 
surprising," said Curran, "for I have been practising all 
night." In a less dangerous position, when Curran feared 
he had a premonition of palsy, the physician assured him 
there was no danger of the kind. "Then," said Curran, 
"I am to consider what has lately happened was a runaway 
knock, and not a notice to quit." 

To come back once more to the gi'otesque. The wig of 
a stupid barrister was awry. Curran smiled. " Do you see 
anything ridiculous in my wig?" said the barrister. "No," 
replied Curran, -"nothing but the head." A pretentious 
witness feigned ignorance of Irish, and spoke in English 
badly. "I see, Sii', how it is," said Curran, "you are more 



110 Giles^ Lectures. 

ashamed of knowing- your own language than of not know- 
ing any other." Many in spirit resemble this poltroon ; 
they are ashamed of being Irish, and yet are often them- 
selves the disgrace of Ireland. 

I quote these sayings in obedience to popular desire, and 
in reverence to traditional affection. But in the intellectual 
estimate of them, I entirely agree with Thomas Davis. 
"What avails it to us," he says, "to know the capital puns 
which Curran made in college, or the smart cj.ngrams he 
said to Macklin ? These things are the empty shells of his 
deep-sea mind — idle things for idlers to classify. But for 
men who, though in the ranks of life, are anxious to order 
their minds by the standard of some commanding spirit — or 
for governing minds, who want to commune with his spirit 
in brotherly sympathy and instruction — to such men the 
puns are rubbish, and the jokes are chaff." 

Curran had an unconquerable aversion to the labor of 
writing. In the composition of his speeches, Curran 
trusted only to meditation and memory. He tried at first 
to write his speeches, but immediately gave up the attempt. 
Writing was not to him an aid, but an embarrassment. He 
much loved walking, and as he walked, he loved to think. In 
these thoughtful walkings much he mused, and out of these 
musings came many of the electric brilliancies of his speeches. 
Ho loved music too ; and having some skill on the violencello, 
while he poiired along the strings some love song, or war 
song, or death song, he composed and elaborated his orations. 
But though Curran did not write his speeches, he was no 
merely extemporaneous speaker, as indeed no great speaker 
can ever be. His preparation was one of careful and most 
thorough labor. What ho was to speak, he made ready to 
his thought, that it might also be ready to his tongue ; and 
this he did by toil, Avhich it required the utmost ambition 
and onthusiasiu to undertake or to boar. Curran was a 



John Philpot Curran. Ill 

man of genius, and because ho was such, he was a man of 
labor. He neglected nothing which could perfect his gifts, 
but was honestly vigilant that, in all which work could do, 
his gifts should not be vulgarly or profanely spoken of. 
He trained an obstinate voice into musical obedience ; by 
the habit of nobly thinking, ho gave glory to homely features; 
and nature blessed him with an eye that, largo, grand, and 
deei?, was as variable as the phases of the sky — living as the 
spirit mind— soft and tender to pity or console — gay and 
sportive to amuse or delight — earnest and solemn "to 
threaten or command. 

I do not propose to give a critical review of Curran's 
speeches, but simj^ly to estimate the spirit of his oratory. 
The measure of time proper to a lecture will not permit 
more, and if it would, more were hardly possible. We have 
no complete or correct report of Curran's speeches, but 
only hurried notes, which give us merely hints of what the 
speeches actually spoken must have been. The reports 
have preserved, indeed, the idiom of his manner, of his 
mind, but evidently they convey no adequate idea of his 
rich and rounded power. 

I shall only glance at a few of the speeches which are 
most marked by Curran's manner, and characterized by his 
genius. 

His speech in defence of Peter Finnerty, as the printer of 
what was deemed a libel on the Irish Government, is very 
able. It is powerful in logic, law, and passion — especially 
I^assion — the passion of angry despair, of patriotic sorrow ; 
caUing into use all the sardonic or sportive fancy, all the 
faculties of ridicule, scorn, irony, and sarcasm which his 
wonderful talent had so sovereignly at command. This 
speech is one of the noblest defences that was ever made for 
the rights of the citizen and the liberty of the press. 

The defence of Finney, prosecuted for high treason in 



112 Giles' Lectures. 

1708, has passages terrifically ironical in their dissection of 
the character of Jemmy O'Brien, the hirehug spy and in- 
fonuor of the government. The speech for Oliver Bond is 
distinguished by gravit}'-, reflectiveness, and melancholy — 
burning up, at times, into the llame of consuming energy. 
The speech against Major Sirr carries irony, ridicule, con- 
tempt, hatred, and scorn to the utmost limits of language. 
In the plea for Owen Kirwan, the advocate feels that he can- 
not save his client, and becomes despondently eloquent on 
the condition of his country. Curran's argument for Judge 
Johnson is tender, learned, classical, and is famous for a 
passage in which he alludes to a former friendship with 
Jjord Avoumorc, who presided on the trial — a passage 
which more than renewed their friendship ; for the barrister 
and the magistrate had for some time been alienated. 

The speech for Hamilton llowan is grand and large. The 
speech for Henry Shears, and that for Lady Fitzgerald, are 
remarkable for pathos and moral beauty. The speech for 
Shears Avas made under the most dismal and discouraging 
circumstances. The trial began at nine o'clock in the morn- 
ing, and fifteen hours of vigilance and hard Avork had been 
gone through when Curran was called on, after midnight, to 
begin his speech for the defence. He requested a short 
interval — no so much, he said, for repose as for recollection. 
The request was refused; and, in a condition of the last 
exhaustion, he commenced his terrific task. The speech 
against Headfort contains Curran's best excellencies, and 
all the elements of the highest forensic oratory. This was 
his last great effort at the bar. I have in this enumeration 
observed no strict chronological order. 

I will occupy the remainder of the lecture in giving my 
general idea of Curran's eloquence. I am impressed deeply 
with its moral sinq)licity, and its moral elevation. 

Curran found the data of his forensic or legislative roa- 



Jail II Phil pal i'lirntii. \\',\ 

polling^ in ilic coinnion uuitire ol" in;ui ; :i\u\ ilu- l<no\vk!(l<;o 
ol' that iiaturo -wiiicli goniuH, obscrvutioii, uud cxporionco 
gave Iiiiu, bocanio tho substance of liia logic. Ho appoalocl 
directly to intuitive sentiment and thought — to huuiaiiiiy in 
its everlasting principles of morality. Curran's power of 
reaching tho moral life of the inward man — that part of 
human nature which is not dependent on customs or enact- 
ments, which is not local or temporary, but univ(n-sal and 
everlasting — is one of tho most obvious (lualiiic^s of his (ilo- 
([uenco. Accordingly, Curran is constantly forsalving tho 
logic of law for tho logic of life — piercing into hidden sources 
of emotion, awakcniing slumbering comi)unctions, or recall- 
ing forgotten truths — giving fresh colors to the wcib of 
faded associations — carrying his reasoning upward to tlio 
highest appeal, or carrying it outward into broad and 
ethical relations. Tliis is what gives to his elo([uence its 
heartfelt impressiveness, its elevation, and its rectitude. 
Curran, with all his subtlety of mind, with all his intelkuitual 
ingenuity and inventiveness, is seldom sophistical. He 
speaks from no cunningly-contrived device, or artificially- 
arranged theory; ho has indeed a very marked mannerism, 
but he despised tricks of thought and tricks of tongue. 
From such ho was saved not merely by his genius, but 
also by the momentous concerns which called forth his 
most memorable speeches. These concerns were too 
weighty to admit of quibbles, and if they did, quibbles 
were beneath Curran. Ho tried to give to forensic dis- 
cussion the grandeur of moral reason ; he tried often, like a 
valiant prophet, to argue with the conscicncies of men, 
whoso passions, as he ktiev/, had already condciuincd his 
clients. Ho rose to the height of this great argument ; he 
sustained it Ijy philosophy and ethics ; he strengtliened it 
by tho solemn fears of a judgment to come, and by the 
mysteries of eternal retribution. An appeal to such idtimato 



114 Giles^ Lectures. 

laws was in Curran an unostentatious sincerity ; it was the 
habit of his mind, and we feel the influence of it in all his 
eloquence. The great passages in this eloquence are great 
in the boldness of their moral grandeur. 

What next impresses me in Curran's eloquence is its 
imaginativeness. It is not essential. to an orator to have 
the constitution of a poet. Great orators have been who 
were not in the least poets. But though not essential, the 
poetic spirit, especially in union with impassioned imagma- 
tion, grandly aids the orator. Such poetic spirit was Cur- 
ran's, and such impassioned imagination. These qualities 
gave to his oratory its richness of beauty, its elevation, its 
music, and its magic ; above all, that electricity' of idea and 
of thought which ever and ever darted through his speaking 
in flashes of inspiration. "The mind of the judge," said 
Curran, pleading against the authority of a cruel and 
obsolete statute — " the mind of the judge is the repository 
of the law that docs exist, not of the law that did exist ; nor 
does the mercy and justice of our law recognize so disgrace- 
ful an office as that of a judge becoming a sort of adminis- 
trator to a dead statute, and collecting the debts of blood 
that were due to it in its lifetime." But in the speech 
against the Marquis of Headfort for the seduction of Mrs. 
Massy, I find a still more impressive illustration — one in the 
highest degree pathetic and imaginative. He pleads for 
ample damages, and thus proceeds : — 

" The learned counsel has told you that this unfortunate 
woman is not to be estimated at forty thousand pounds. 
Fatal and unquestionable is the truth of this assertion. 
Alas ! gentlemen, she is no longer worth anything. Faded, 
fallen, degraded, she is worth less than nothing. It is not 
her present value you are to weigh, but it is her value at 
the time when she sat basking in a husband's love, with the 
blessing of Heaven on her head, and its purity in her heart 



John Philpot Curran. 115 

— when she sat among her family and administered the 
morality of the parental board. Estimate that past value, 
compare it with its present deplorable diminution, and it 
may lead you to form some judgment of the injury, and the 
requisite extent of the compensation. And yet, as the 
advocate argues, the injury in such cases as this has no 
outward measure, and admits of no worldly compensation. 
In any other action, he says, it is easy to calculate. If a 
tradesman's arm is cut off, you can measure the loss which 
he has sustained ; but the wound of feehngs and the agony 
of the heart cannot be judged by anj^ standard with which I 
am acquainted. And you are unfairl}^ dealt with when you 
are called on to appreciate the present suffering of the 
husband by the present guilt, delinquency, and degradation 
of his wife. As well might you, if called on to give com- 
pensation to a man for the murder of his dearest friend, 
find the measure of the injui'y by weighing the ashes of the 
dead. But it is not, gentlemen of the jury, by weighing 
the ashes of the dead that you would estimate the loss of 
the survivor." Hero we have no piling of epithets, no multi- 
phcation of tropes, which many persons mistaldngly con- 
found with the action of imagination ; but we have that 
working of the spirit with the inward essences of thought 
and hfe, wliich is most truly the action of imagination. In 
a different manner, alluding to the Attorney-General, who 
accused a newspaper article, which he adjudged a libel, of 
being scurrilous and disrespectful. " He abuses it," says 
Curran, " for the foul and insolent familiarity of its address. 
I do clearly understand his idea. He considers the freedom 
of the press to be the license of offering, that paltry adula- 
tion which no man ought to stoop to utter or to hear. He 
supposes the freedom of the press ought to be like the 
freedom of a king's jester, who, instead of reproving the 
faults of which majesty ought to be ashamed, is base and 



Ill) Giksi' Lectures. 

cimuiug onougli, under the mask of servile and adulatory 
censure, to stroke do^Yn and pamper those vices of Avhich it 
is foolish enough to be vain." 

Curran's eloquence is full of allusions, epithets, turns of 
expression, that show not only how rich his imagination 
was, but also how original. Imaginativeness is particularly 
striking in his descriptive passages. In these passages, 
scenes, persons, objects seem to have an intensified reality. 
The whole region of the ideal seems entirely at his com- 
mand ; and at his bidding the creations of thought become 
things of life. He is never visionary, and never merges the 
particular in the general. Vigorous and able speaking is 
connuon and abundant. Men do not wonder at it. But 
the speaking of Curran must have seemed to his hearers 
almost a miracle — the instinctive, spontaneous, outpouring 
of all that is extraordinary in passion, invention, image, 
idea, thought, and word. A great speaker is one in a 
thousand of good speakers ; but to be eloquent is to be one 
man in a thousand, even of great speakers. It is in this 
sense that Curran was eloqiient. The lawyer disappeared 
in the man, and we lose sight of the advocate in the orator 
and the poet. " I have met Curran at Holland House," 
wrote Byron. " His imagination is beyond human, and his 
humor is perfect. I never met his equaL" The poet-peer 
improves even on this. " Curran," he exclaims — " Curran's 
the man who struck me most. Such imagination! There 
never was anything like it. He was wonderfiU even to me, 
who had seen so man}- remarkable men of the time. The 
riches of his Irish imagination were exhaiistless. I have 
heard that man speak more poetry than I have ever seen 
written, though I saw him seldom, and but occasionally." 

Curran's fancy was equal to his imagination, and fancy 
Avas the chief ingredient of his wit. His humor was even 
greater than his wit. But both wit and humor gave way 



John Philpot Curran. 117 

to sterner qualities in all liis higher eloquence. Curran 
was strong in the force of passion ; but the passion which 
fired his eloquence was ever mighty and indignant against 
cruelty and wrong. This it was which made him above 
most orators a master of denunciation, of invective, and of 
ridicule. For clemency and justice, he was bold and brave ; 
towards oppressors and tyrants he was scornful aiid licrcc. 
He despised baseness as ho hated wrong. It is when this 
godly anger and this htiman sympathy move him, that ho 
rises to those commanding passages of eloqucnco whi(;h are 
the genuine utterances of his greater nature. The supremo 
tasks of oratory which have made Curran historical, wore 
too gloomy for smiles — too replete with grief for laughter; 
and Curran was not the man to trifle with such tasks. He 
could not " bandy quirks, or think a deadly bloodshed but 
a jest," while his client stood face to face with mortal doom ; 
and that sympathetic humanity which gladdened the ban- 
quet could only be thoughtful and tragic in the ante- 
chamber of the scaffold. In trials for high treason in his 
day, the criminal court was just such an ante-chamber. 
Not only the danger of his cHent, but the affliction of his 
country compelled him to be solemn. And the man has not 
breathed that ever loved his country more than Curran 
loved Ireland. But Curran's love of country had its roots 
in the love of humanity. His love of country went into the 
love of kind, and transcended passion. It broke down the 
limits of patriotic circumscription, and rose ^o the enthusi- 
astic prophecy of liberty for man. Of such pur2:iort is the 
celebrated passage in his speech for Hamilton Rowan, on 
the genius of " Universal Emancipation." 

To this result of universal emancipation all generous and 
hopeful souls look forward — not in the spirit of British law, 
as Curran says, but in the spirit of human right — not with- 
in the limits of the British earth, but within the wido 



118 Giles' Lectures, 

compass of the world. It is a progress which every advance 
in knowledge, in liberal-niindedness, and in goodness helps 
along. But this emancipation is not from one kind of 
bondage alone ; for such would not bo " universal," but very 
partial emancipation. There are many kinds of bondage : 
bondage of mind as well as bondage of body — slaveries of 
appetite and lust, of gain and greed, that blind reason and 
debase the heart. There are social slaveries — slaveries of 
class, of custom, of opinion, and, Mitli them, corresponding 
sets of bigotries, in each of which Ave see reconciled the 
submission of servitude and the arrogance of despotism. 
That is an inadequate idea of slavery which gives it to us 
only in its extreme condition. Men enslave others, or wish 
to enslave them, in manifold forms ; and they do so in the 
degree that they are themselves enslaved. "When men 
begin to understand fully the best hberty, \hey desire that 
all should share it, and share it to the utmost. "When the 
true spirit of liberty — that is, the spirit of humanity and of 
right, of equity and of charity — has power in the world, then, 
verily, it can be said of man, that " his soul walks abroad 
in her majesty, that his body swells beyond the measure of 
his chains, and that he stands redeemed, regenerated, and 
disenthralled by the irresistible genius of Universal Emanci- 
pation." 

Curran has suffered the critical penalty which every 
brilliant and emotional man has to suffer. His force of 
thought is not I'ecognized by reason of his force of passion, 
and the rectitude of his judgment is decried in the praise 
of his imagination. Many portions of Curran's speeches 
are as prosaic as the dullest formalist could desire ; many 
portions would also please the greatest thinker in their 
plain sense, solid argument, and cahn sobriety. Such por- 
tions are seldom, by his ordinary admirers, considered 
eloquent. To me they are often the most eloquent, because 



John Fhtlpot Curran. 119 

they are the most serious, the most simple, the most 
logical, and the most to the purpose. But a speaker must 
be judged not in the fragments, but in the wholeness of his 
power. More than almost any other speaker, Curran must 
be so judged, or the judgment will be inadequate or 
untrue. Curran has been no less depreciated as a lawyer 
than as a reasoner. He knew, it is probable, more law than 
a learned jurist would give him credit for, because such a 
man could have no respect for any attainments short of 
erudition. This, I suppose, Curran had not ; and yet he 
had, I apprehend, sufficient legal knowledge to serve his 
need. The legal learning of Curran would be small in 
comparison with that of a Holt, an Eldon, a Marshall, a 
Story, or a Kent, and yet in the sphere of his practice be 
other than contemptible. CuiTan was, however, by nature 
an orator, and not his ignorance, so much as his instincts, 
unfitted him for technical arguments. But men may under- 
rate Curran's logical or legal intellect, and yet be very 
unworthy to criticise it. There are men whom devotees 
may censure, that, behind their very defects, have rehgion 
enough to make an assembly of pietists. So there are men 
to whom pedants deny the credit of cogent thinking, that 
have more intellect in their Uttlc fingers than such pedants 
have in their souls and bodies. Curran, hke every supreme 
speaker, was always more occupied with the sjjirit of reason 
than with the machineries of syllogism. 

I cannot omit referring to the dramatic powers of Cur- 
ran's eloquence. Every great orator has the art of the 
player, and sotnethiug more. The player has the speech 
that he sjDcaks set down for him ; the orator not only 
speaks his speech, but makes it. But the player and the 
orator may assist each other. The orator may study the 
ideal of speech in the player ; the player may study the 
actual of speech in the orator. Curran, I think, must have 



120 Giles' Lectures. 

surpassed any man who ever rose to oratory in Englisli, in 
melting the ideal and tlio actual into speech. Of all orators, 
Currau was one of the most earnest, and he was also one 
of the most dramatic. Having this genius from nature, 
destiny gave him a stage appropriate to its exercise. Crimi- 
nal trials in Ireland have been usually dramatic. I speak 
of Ireland as it used to be. Especially in disturbed times, 
the national character shows itself to the extreme in all its 
peculiar qualities — in its picturcsqueness, oddit}-, and orig- 
inality — in its impassioned ardor — in its wealth of phrase, 
of pathos, and of humor. The most dramatic trials in Ire- 
land have ever been those connected with agrarian, seditious, 
or revolutionary passions. The accused have risked their 
lives, but they have not, among the people, lost their char- 
acter. The smallest theft would have covered them with 
disgrace ; but agrarian or political offences often raised 
them into popular dignity. At all events, they appear on 
trial entirely free from obloquy. An Irish court-house is 
then a theatre for drama more exciting than poet ever 
created — drama that is thoroughly human and profoundly 
real. Striking contrasts of life, of condition, even of his- 
tory and of race, are there. In the mass, the audience are 
peasantry, clean and hardy. The prisoner at the bar is one 
of themselves. They feel with him, and they feel for him. 
No word or motion that concerns him escapes their atten- 
tion. His relations and neighbors are usually close to him. 
Learned judges, robed and ermined, listen in all the gravity 
of silence to witness and to counsel. Irish judges were in 
past times, and of such times we speak, seldom allied to 
the prisoner eitlua* by the sympathy of creed, or by the 
kindred of race. The passions of common life are among 
the jury — sometimes with the prisoner, and sometimes 
against him. The attorney-general or the solicitor-general, 
soberly, solemnly, solidly, makes out his case, and brings 



John Philpot Curran. 121 

his arg-nment to a conclusion as fatal as the certainty of 
doom. The evidence of circumstances and of the prisoner's 
accomplices sustains him. The defending advocate hopes 
against hope, and struggles manfully when hope is over. 
In this wrestling against despair for his client's life, the 
advocate often becomes sublime, above aught that tragedy 
can show. This frequently was the sublimity of Cur van. 
The verdict announces the catastroi^ho ; then burst out the 
groan, the wail, the irrepressible agony of desolated hearts. 
But in ordinary trials of this kind there would be some 
element of suspense, and always the possibiHty of a doubt. 
The advocate or the audience would not be overpowered by 
the dreadful gloom of a legal predestination. Some rays of 
promise still glimmer through the darkness ; and while this 
is so, no Irish court-house will be void of humor. The 
judges will smile — perhaps they may mildly jest ; the law- 
yers will banter ; the witnesses will beat counsel in retort 
and joke ; the jury will laugh outright ; the audience will 
share in the exhilaration. The matter, as a wliole, is a 
tragedy — but a tragedy of the Shakespearean kind, in which, 
though death comes at the close, mirth and folly play their 
parts along the way. But the treason-trials of 1798, in 
which Curran was concerned, admitted of no such mixture. 
The tragedy of those trials was purely Greek — a tragedy in 
which death and doom rule from the beginning to the end. 
Imagine a court-house after midnight dimly lighted. Two 
brothers sit wearied in the dock. Stern and still the judges 
sit wearied on the bench ; they are faintly recognized by 
their crimson robes and their solemn faces. The jury are 
grouped away in shadow. Government swearers and ora- 
tors have been for long and many hours doing their utmost. 
The fate of the brothers is already sealed. Curran, woefully 
worn out, is called on to defend tliem. He begs for time to 
meditate and rest, but he l)egs in vain. Then, in Ihat dreary 

G 



122 Gihi Lcdurcs. 

night, encompassed by all that was chill and cheerless, he 
speaks on foi* hours with grand and despairing eloquence. 
While ho speaks, corpses of strangled cHents for whom he 
lately pleaded are not yet cold ; and before the sun shall 
twice arise, the brothers will be corpses for whom now he 
pleads. Was not this tragedy? Ay, tragedy of a darker 
terror than Eschylus ever wi*ote ; and Curran was equal to 
it in all the fearfulness of its power. 

An element in the eloquence of Curran to be specially 
noted is that of pathos. In pathos he was above most 
orators, in whatever sphere of speech, or in Avhatever line. 
This was partly owing to his temperament. Ho was con- 
stitutionally pensive. He was of a thoiaghtful imagination, 
much given to solitary musing. Like the Jacques of Shake- 
speare, " by often rumination, ho was constantly wrapt in 
a most humorous sadness." Full as he was of mirth and 
fanc}*, he was yet more a man of meditation and sensibility. 
He loved the lonely walk, and he loved also to play old Irish 
airs on his violincello, while he brooded over those thoughts 
which wore to become in speech the voice impassioned, 
sweet, and strong of a mighty pleader. And here I 
may also observe that Curran's pathos Avas in part owing 
to his country. In the twofold tendencies of the Irish to 
merriment and melancholy, Curran was a representative 
character. He could set the table in a roar, but he could 
also move a multitude to tears. It was not women only 
that heaved with convulsive sobs when he drew pictures of 
sulVering and crime — bearded men grew faint, and even 
hackneyed officials showed symptoms of humanity. 

Another incitement to the pathetic in the spii'it and 
speaking of Curran came from the times in which he lived. 
These were momentous times, and to any man who was a 
conscientious agent in them, they ANcre full of awful duty. 
But Curran worked in them with more than conscience, and 



John Phil pot Cumin. I li;{ 

he felt the criino luid ('-ru(3l(.y iliaf, (liu-kdiuid ilunu wWh m^n•^^ 
ihivn oflendoil virtue — ho IVK, ilu>iu Avilh Iho k(HHi(>si, f^iicf 
uiul ])ain. The ovil of iho times pi(U'('(>(l Jiim lo iJui soiil, 
and inado him passionately sad. ITiH intcvllcHit and hi.s lunu't 
W(iro st{H'p(Ml in hoitow. Ho pleaded patlietically and pas- 
sionately for his clionts, hut the f^reat anii(iiiou was in the 
wo(^s of his (u)untry. No one cau \viu\ vmwx the m(\'i}4ro 
r(^j)orts Avhich we have of (Jurran's sp(^('ch(\s wiMionl. r('elinf>^ 
iiow profoundly his life was in the cause of li-eland, and 
liow his heart was bowed down under the burden of lusr 
calamities. Tliis interest in his <u)untry is the (lentral 
inspiration of his oloqucuee, and in his day his country was 
clad iu mourning. 

Ever and ever tlie spii-it of [)a(rioti(; laiucntaliou conuss 
into utterance, and cannot bo Buppressed. These lar^'o 
feelings malco Curran'a pathos great. There is nothing 
more contemptible than maudlin or ail'ected pathos — pathos 
which has not the truth of life or the grace of acting — pathos 
wliich is but a mockery of the stage, without its poetry or 
its art. Such was not the pathos of Currau's elocpuincc;. 
ITis pathos was not simulated or jjrolcssional ; it was 
natural ; it was iu the man. It was no chca]) moral or 
ni(^lodramatic ranting, at which silly people whimper ; it 
was genuine^ manly, muscular— always juKtidcMl by (^ause 
and cir(;umstan(U!. It was the utttu'ance of convi(!tion ; it 
was true to terrible realities ; Bometimes like a proplwstie 
(!ry amidst a wilderness of graves — a wail over measureless 
calamities, and souKitimes like a mouriiful ])salni which 
might have been chanted by the rivers of Jiabylon. And 
lliis strain well suited Curran ; for he was by natural con- 
stitution both melanch(;ly and nuisical. He was tho most 
lyrical of speakers. Ho was ono of those whoso thoughts 
make melody in conception, and which coming into words 
are born into sontr. All his faculties were nnu;ical : his 



124 Giles' Lectures. 

intellect, his imagination, his emotions ; and these all having 
spontaneous union and utterance in his eloquence, made 
that eloquence the witchcraft and magic that it was. This 
made it dift-erent from all other eloquence — not in power, 
but in kind ; it was not so much an eloquence of logic as of 
enchantment — not so much like the sword of Goliah as like 
the harp of David. 

AVhat I last note in the eloquence of Curran is its cour- 
age. Danger is the test of manhood, whether in action or 
in words; and hardly a speech historically gre;it has over 
been spoken but at momentous hazard. This, here, I must 
simply assert. All who are conversant with the subject 
know that the assertion can be proved. No speaker ever 
had moi*e courage than Curran, and no speaker ever more 
needed it. His courage was physical, mental, moral, politi- 
cal, constant, and consistent. Mortal combat was in the 
times of Curran frequently the cost of a word, and this 
cost, more than once, Curran was obliged to pay. At the 
very entrance of his active and professional life, he gave 
a magnanimous example of moral independence and physi- 
cal intrepidity. An aged Catholic priest. Father Neale, in 
the discharge of his sacred duty, at the injunction of his 
bishop, excited the anger of a Protestant nobleman. The 
prolligate aristocrat. Lord Donervaile, accompanied by his 
brother, Mr. St. Leger, rode to the old man's cottage, called 
him out from his devotions, and, at his own door, beat 
him almost to death. But such w^as the dominion of Prot- 
estant asccndenc}^ at the time, that lawyers refused to be 
concerned for a Catholic priest. Curran immediately un- 
dertook the case, and fearlessly and fiercely stigmatized the 
culprits. Considering the power which these culprits pos- 
sessed, as Ireland was thou ruled, the audacity of a young 
barrister in daring it was to some heroic, to others insolent, 
to all a novcltv and a wonder. Curran g;uncd a verdict 



John riiilpot Cumin. 125 

Hffainst tlio nobleman, fonglit n diiel -with the nobleman's 
brother, whom, in the course of the trial, he had charac- 
terized as a riillian and a coward. The venerable man 
whose wrongs ho so eloquently exposed, in quitting this 
mortal life soon after, sent for the generous advocate, and 
gave him his dying benediction. ]3ut well miglit JeilVey, 
while commenting in the Edinburgh lleview ou these events, 
express his astonishment that such things could over have 
been. Demosthenes, it was said, ran away from battle. 
This was probably a calumny. But against Ciirran no such 
calumny was possible. Cicero has been accused not only 
of being a trimmer, but of being timid ; and Mirabeau, it 
has been alleged, sold the popular cause for regal bribery. 
But Curran was as bold politically as he was personally, 
and he was as above interest as ho was above fear. Wo 
cannot at this day estimate what Curran sacrificed to the 
popular cause, or how much risk ho encountered for it. 
The part which Curran took in the rebellion-trials of 1708 
has nothing in the whole history of defensive oratory with 
which we can compare it. Curran's position was a singuLvr 
one, and the man was as singular as the position — as sin- 
gular as either were the circumstances which created the 
position, and which glorified the man. A strange unity of 
national character jirevailed then in Ireland amidst the 
most irreconcilable political hatreds. This very community 
of national genius, impassioned and intense, rendered con- 
test all the fiercer, and made enmity all the darker. Power 
in its victoi-y was cruel and unsparing; weakness in its 
defeat had nothing to plead, and nothing to hope. Hu- 
manity was asleep; conscience was blind; pity was deaf; 
l)ut vengeance was all alive and all awake. Law was a dead 
letter ; trial by jury was " a delusion, a mockery, and a 
snare." Any one who reads the records of those times will 
learn how universal was then in Ireland the reign of terror. 



126 Giles' Lectures. 

The Marquis of Cornwallis, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, at 
the close of the insurrection, says that the executions by 
ordinary courts, or courts martial, were nothing compared 
with the butcheries and burnings committed b^' armed and 
licensed murderers, who were not less abhorrent to the 
high and humane among the rulers than they were mon- 
strous and merciless to the people. In such a condition of 
things Curran had to stand nearly alone. He had to speak 
for the speechless, when words for the accused were almost 
accounted crimes ; and he had to take the side of the 
doomed when the rancor of party spirit often confounded 
the advocate with the client. 

Curran says, in 1794, while defending Dr. Drennan, to 
him a perfect stranger, prosecuted for a seditious libel — " I 
feel that if a barrister can act so mean and despicable a part 
as to decline, from personal apprehension, the defence of 
any man accused, he does not deserve to be heard in any 
court of justice." And in the same speech he says — " I have 
been parading through the capital, and I feel that the night 
of unenlightened wretchedness is fast approaching, when 
a man shall be judged before he is tried, when the advo- 
cate shall be libelled for discharging his duty to his chent ; 
that night of human nature, when a man shall be himted 
down, not because he is a criminal, but because he is ob- 
noxious." The last speech which Curran ever made in 
^Parliament was in 1797. In this speech he also alludes to 
the risks which he had to meet in being true to the most 
sacred duty of his profession. 

In most of the state trials the law and the evidence were 
fearfully against Curran ; and if they were not, packed 
and prejudiced juries were siire to be. This last circum- 
stance seems to have caused him the severest labor and the 
sorest distress. To watch his manner of dealing with such 
juries, to observe the versatility of motives and means by 



John J*/iilpot. CiD'ran. 127 

wliicli bo tries to obtain a fair consideration of his client's 
case, and to know that despair is at the bottom of it all, has 
an interest that is painfully and grandly tragic. Such a 
strife of genius against destiny and doom suggests to us the 
struggle of a noble ghidiator with beasts in the Roniiin 
circus. Tiie ghidiator knows that the beasts will kill him, 
but none the less he maintains his manhood to the last. 
Curran, in the trials of 1798, encountered all sorts of dan- 
gers. Ho was hooted by the armed yeomanry ; persecuted 
with anonymous letters ; hated most lieartily by olUcials 
and their slaves ; ho was hated with deadly hatred by 
the inhuman purchasers of lying oaths, by the perjured 
sellers of their brothers' lives — by men liungry and thirsty 
with a vindictiveness that the pangs of the scailbld could 
not satiate — by men made savago and cruel by their passions 
and their fears. With the local statutes against him, with 
the executive authority against him, with all tho strength 
of an enraged, a sanguinary, and a powerful party against 
him, ho did most heroically strive in his great vocation. 

Curran's eloquence must not be criticised by men wlio 
live at ease. Work like his is not to bo judged by men 
at home in the ordinary elegancies of professional rou- 
tine. Tho man who can look critically at the eloquence 
of a speaker situated as Curran was, is a person who, as ho 
could have no sympathy with the spirit of speech like Cur- 
ran's, could have no true knowledge of its excellence. Such 
a man has no authority to an opinion on its defects. When 
occasions are fatal and big with destiny, wo think littlo 
about artistic finish — we note not tho artist, but tho 
man; and not only imperfections of taste, but the glories 
of genius escape our attention in the hero who bravely dares 
such occasions, and is e(|ual to them. Curran was not only 
equal to terrible occasions, but surpassed tlicni. 

The supremo eloquence of nations, when I think of it 



1-v^ Cities' Ichors. 

historioallv. hupvvssos mo Nvith movo o( ssulnoss thau of ox- 
ultatiou, Supronto oUhiuohoo of this kind is over in tho 
hijjhost dogivo impassioned and pathetic, and the passiou 
and the pathos aiv born out of terrible strifes— nnit of the 
depths of monU and sooisd agv>iiies, lUoqueuoo is thou the 
voi«.H) of national or poUtiojd trj^gtKly; it is ususUly either 
the givau of expiring Ul>orty or the cry of new-born iwolu- 
tion. It was near or at the ch>se of an independent nation- 
ahty that tl\e Hebxvw pivphets aivse, and sliared Nvith tlieir 
bivthi'en the captivity Nvhich they foix>sa\Y, but could not 
pu>vent. Never \\";\s eloquetice gnuxder or niore patriotic 
than in the passionate sublimity of Isiiiah, and the pathetic 
despondency of Jei\>miah ; luid botli pix>phets appejuxnl 
aiuivlst the calamities of their race. Demosthenes spoke 
his most electric siH^eches amidst the ruins of Orecitui 
ivpublics ; and when he pi-onouuced the funerjU ontUon 
over those who fell at Ohanvnea, it n\ay be truly said 
that he tUso pronounced the funersU onxtion of Oreoijvn 
lil>erty. Cicero was the gToatest oiixtor of l\onu\ auvl he 
was the hist. It was always when the crisis of public ntViiii-s 
in England beciune disturbed and dangvivus that men were 
mightiest iu speech. So likewise it was *' the times which 
tried men's souls " in America that c;Ulevl forth the daring 
dechunation of John Adams and Patrick Heiiry ; and the 
times which have here iig-juu tried men's sot\ls with a 
sterner orde:il, were jneceilod and accompanied by an 
intense luid powerful rhetoric. 

It was iu the throes of revolutionary Fi-anco that the 
terrible voice of Mirabeau was heard ivUiug above the 
tempest, and i«omm;uidiug it. And so, that of all the 
eloquence for which the Engiisli Ijvnguage has been the 
medium, none luis been greater thau that which shrieked 
s\nd w:uled amidst the gloom of Irisli state prosecutions in 
ITi^Sj or thsvn thimdered iu the Irish PaiUjunent during the 



John I'kUprit darran. 



Vl'.i 



wtrugglo for its rightw, and (hivim/, the closing 8c««ion8 of ita 
Kliort-livcd 'iiAi:])CAi(\(in<-Ai. OwiaHioriH for the Hniirhme elo- 
quence of nationw arc rare ; bo i« the jjeniii« eqiml to them ; 
and thi« ij< good for the world Such eloquen^xj burhts out 
from the t<;mpeHt« of society. But the bcBt iuiarehiH of 
Bociety grow strong in hUcaicj: ; they are nurtured by 
thought, education, piety, industry, and i>eace. 




IRISH EMIGRATION. 



Theke are naturalists who assert that, as the elephant ia 
found in one climate and the bear in another, so are differ- 
ent races of men. Such races are indigenous to the soil, 
they say, and belong to it, as a palm-tree or an oak, a 
cabbage or a potato. But there are naturalists of quite as 
high authority who maintain that mankind consists of a 
single race, and must have proceeded from one pair of 
parents. As I am not scientific, and in these matters must 
rest on authority, I take the authority which is on the side 
of the moral feelings. That humanity has but one earthly 
parentage is an idea which carries with it the blessed senti- 
ment of family and kindred — that brings along with it a 
sense of all the holy affections and duties which are instinct- 
ively associated with the idea. To that idea, therefore, will 
I hold; and the intuition of the soul, which reveals to me 
the universal 1^'otherhood of man, I shall never give up for 
the conjectures of ethnology or the reasonings of compara- 
tive anatomy. 

I do not, however, deny the existence of varieties among 
men. To do that would be to blind our intellects as well 
as our eyes. I take facts as I find them, and leave theories 
where they ought to be left, in the region of speculation. 
" Wlien the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a hern- 
shaw " — but there is no reason why I should not also know 
it when the wind is northerly. Thus I can know a black 



Irish Emigration. 131 

man from a brown, and a brown one from a white ; and I 
can know all this without a theory. I shall accordingly 
judge each in what he shows himself to be ; even in doing 
that, I shall take more into account his opportunities than 
his climate or his color. With mere abstract capacity, I have 
no concern ; I have no measure for duration or possibilit}-. 
History is young ; and if we had every fact in our memory 
that histoi-y could afford us, and could apply it with the 
rectitude of infallible science, we should still feel that our 
data were poor ; we should still feel, if we felt rightly, 
that we were inadequate to predicate concerning the early 
past of man of any type, or of his distant future. I cannot 
say to what man living I would give the primogeniture of 
the past, and there is no man from whom I would take the 
inheritance of the future. If the past is a claim for pride, 
no man can prove his title ; if the future is the right of 
hope, every man is born to it. Hope is the common 
property of life, and he who tells his brother to despair, 
utters an accursed speech. I would, if my words could 
reach or could encourage him, say to the lowest savage, 
"Grovel not ; be a man, and hope." He is, indeed, of a 
wretched and of a puny spirit who is content to fall back 
upon his race for assurance of respect, and who is not con- 
scious that all which can most degrade him, and all which 
can most exalt, belongs to his individuahty. He is of a 
menial soul who cannot respect himself until he find some 
one lower than himseK to scorn ; but, indeed, he who 
scorns any man for his race, has none lower than himself to 
find. In practical life, take a man for what he is worth, and 
let his worth be the measure of the man. But my subject 
is "Irish Emigration." 

It was in 1847 that I saw in its most impressive form the 
movement from Ireland which stirred the hearts of millions 
for voluntary expatriation. Had it not been so clear in the 



i;}2 Gi/n' Lectures. 

light of fact, it would liavo had au epic graiideiu' ; as it 
was, it had not a httle of the solemn and the tragic. I do 
not attempt to give the philosophy of it. The fact itself 
was so terrible and so sublime, that it seemed to overpower 
the mind, and render it incapable of logic or analysis. A 
whole people was in motion — mighty as an ocean, and con- 
tinuous as its waves. Compared with the crowds which 
were then steadily quitting- Ireland for ever, the armies that 
all Europe furnished for the Crusades were trilling bands. 
The movement, too, was characterized by singular unity, 
persistency, and decision. Multitiides in spontaneous action 
wore changing, finally, their nation and their homes. The 
young mother with her first-born was among them, and so 
was the grandmother ; the boy in the lirst decade of his 
life, and the patriarch verging towards his century. They 
hoped not to return. Those whom they left behind had 
tlieir worst grief in being left, and their best consolation in 
the hope to follow. "What is thei-e in the world, what i? 
there in history, upon which the mind can dwell so wonder^ 
ingly and so sadlj- ? Those multitudes fled not before the 
sword ; there was no sound of arms in the land. They left 
it in silence ; their steps were not hciU-d. They raised 
not their weepings ; they went dovni quieth' into the 
holds of ships, and dsu-kness and the noises of ocean were 
about them. Their exodus was not, like that of the 
Israehtes, a flight fi'ora bondage ; it was a depai'ture by 
choice. It was not from a foreign soil ; it was from their 
native land ; and yet they loved their native land with all 
the force of passion. But in one sense they were very 
unlike the Israehtes in quitting Egypt — they left no flesh- 
pots behind them to regret. Alas that it should be spoken! 
— not in jest, but in gloomy truth — they had not even 
potatoes to lament. In lower value iilso than the Israelites, 
their rulers did not hinder, but hasten their departure, juid 



Irisli Emigration. 13<i 

there were some who seemed to boast of it as an advantage. 
Depopulation was the new idea of a political miUenniiim, 
and si:)ace emptied of its native human bone and muscle, to 
be replaced by the beastly bone and muscle of sheep and 
oxen, was thought to be the clearing for a future Hibernian 
Eden. But when the terrible Crimean War came, with its 
tempests of blood and fire ; when the supreme struggle of 
the Indian Mutiny came, with its long-suspended agony of 
terror and despair — then it was understood that one brave 
human heart was worth a hecatomb of bullocks — the cattle 
upon a thousand hills were not then worth the soldierly 
soul of a peasant from Yorkshire, Lanarkshire, Galway, or 
Tipperary. 

In the emigrating movement to which I have referred, 
physical privation was the sternest impulse — a privation 
aggravated to extremity by famine and evictions. To this 
I may add political despair. The aspirations which were 
awakened by O'Connell, and kept alive by his agitations, 
his promises, his prophecies, and his eloquence, opened to 
a people like the Irish, of quick imagination and passionate 
nationahty, brilliant vistas of inde2:)endence and of glory. 
But successive delays began to undermine faith, and re- 
peated disappointments to wear out patience. Desire was 
strong as ever, but coming no nearer to fruition, it grew 
into despondency. Wish and belief ceased to correspond. 
Nationality was the strongest sentiment in the native ; and 
that gTcat majority whom this heart animated, had no 
sympathy with British imperialism. Nay, they had a most 
decided repugnance to it. They had no pride in it ; it did 
not belong to them ; they did not live, they were only lost 
in it. Of its honors they had little ; of its glories they had 
none. Its fullest citizenship did not meet that aching 
which centuries of subjection could not stifle. That Ireland 
should be swallowed in the vastness of British imperial 



134 Giks^ Lectures. 

power, was worse even than ser-vdtude. A swaj' which had 
to be maintaiued by force implied a vigor in the governed 
which was feared; so that pains, and penalties, and coercion, 
hard as they were, were still evidence that nationality was 
not subdued, and the persistency which was still strong 
enough to provoke them, was also strong enough to endure 
them. There was in this endiarance dignity, and any suffer- 
ing had compensation, M'hich proved that the nation was not 
extinguished. For national extinction, imperial freedom was 
no equivalent. If this fi-eedom did not serve as a means to 
national restoration, it was esteemed of small value by the 
mass of the people. Nationahty, not constitutionalism, was 
the idea which kindled popular enthusiasm. But nation- 
ality had been, even to the most sanguine, losing the 
show of probability. Years gathered on O'Connell — gloom 
gathered on the people. The imprisonment of the gi-eat 
tribune was a stroke of palsy to their expectations. There 
was then no likelihood that the Halls of Tara would ever 
be rebuilt ; the harp of silent memories was not to be again 
re-strung, and give them sounds of renovated glory. " The 
songs of the olden time " were not to be hymns of victory 
to a new generation. From the dispiritmg citizenship of 
Biitish imperiahsm, not a few looked back with regret to 
the era of 17S2, and even to the bad days beyond it. They 
were not, indeed, times to be commended ; but there was 
life in them ; there was hilarity in them ; and above all, 
there was hope in them. Bigotry and faction, local tyranny 
and political corruption, abounded among the gentry; but 
numbers even of the vicious among them were kindly- 
hearted, and among the vii-tuous there were a few patriots, 
who would have redeemed the worst ages, and adorned the 
best. The peasants had no votes, but they had frolics ; 
they were, indeed, degraded, but they were not outcasts. 
Dublin was contined, compact, and dirty. Its streets were 



Irish Emigration. 135 

not broad and lofty, but neither were they desolate and 
empty. Grand buildings had not yet arisen to be gaudy 
ruins, and statues did not look down in stony mockery upon 
destitution. Dublin was small ; it was not grand, but it 
was cheerful ; it was not liberal, but it was hearty. Its 
mansions were hospitable ; they abounded with good cheer, 
and they shone with beauty; and both the good cheer and 
beauty Avere native. Life could be easily more orderly and 
more imposing than in those days it was in Dublin, but it 
would be hard to have it more brilliant, more intellectual, 
or more graceful. The Irish University, the Irish Parlia- 
ment, and the Irish Bar, all centred in Dublin, and they 
were all that learning and oratory could make them. The 
public men of the day were familiar with the languages 
of Greece and Rome. Many of them equaled the greatest 
of ancient statesmen in grandeur of eloquence, and trans- 
cended them in grandeur of sentiment. They were men to 
be proud of ; and now many who decry their measures, 
glorify their genius. Even Donnybrook Fair had its 
charms. Its song and dance, its capers and fun, its shows 
and juggleries, its whiskey-drinking and shillalahs, formed 
a grotesque comedy. It was the saturnalia of a peoi:)le whose 
life was made up of strange and queer contrasts ; it was the 
burlesque and the aggregate of their oddities. It was no 
lofty exliibition, but it was distinctive, vital, national. Sub- 
sequent changes gave the excluded masses the rights of 
citizenship, politics, discussion— in one word, Liberty. 

Later came the inevitable and unseen events of potato- 
rots, famine, the decline of the population with pestilential 
rapidity, the bankruptcy of patricians, and the despair of 
plebeians. It was despair every way. The tragedy of 
fact was then present with a terrible reality; the whole 
island was its stage,* and dying thousands sank in the 
catastrophe, not of fictitious, but of actual agony. All this 



136 Ctiles^ Lectures. 

was fact. No ardor could resist it, and no rlietoric could 
disguise it. O'Counell, who "never feared the face" of 
man, quailed in the presence of calamity and fate. His 
words wore bold, but his spirit was sinking. He sickened ; 
so did the people's hopes ; that hope seemed to die with 
him in his death, and to bo buried with him iu liis gTave. 
Young Ireland put forth its voice ; nothing was around it 
but popular despondency, and no multitude answered to its 
call. It was not indilicrcnco in the people, it w'as not 
inaction in the priests, whiqh caused this want of response 
to the insurrectionaiy call ; it was despair in both — tlie 
despair of instinct in the people, the despair of intelligence 
in the priests. And both were right. Both in their respec- 
tive inodes understood that to face the banded armies 
of the British empire, and the empire at peace, was simply 
to rush upon destruction. They forbore. Multitudes died 
of hunger ; and all who could, began to quit Ireland. They 
came hither with increasing numbers, and with increasing 
rapidity. The aggregate swelled as it moved, and the 
momentum quickened with continuance. Hitherward they 
came ; but though the movement may be seldom as it was 
then — though it may have alternations of suspension — • 
hitherward the Irish will come. In fact, emigration is an 
inevitable social law for the British islands. They live by 
it, and thej'' could not live without it. Their populations 
must disperse or perish. It was the same with the ancient 
Romans. Italy could not contain them, and so they ditTused 
themselves throughout the world, by conquest or by colo- 
nization — rather, indeed, by both conquest and colonization. 
The Briton proper follows the example of the Boman ; he 
conquers and colonizes ; biit Briton or not Briton, the 
inhabitants of the British islands emigrate ; yea, and they 
will emigrate. But they dq_ so iu a special order. So far 
as this western continent is concerned, the Englishman 



//•/.s7t Emigrafion. l'.',1 

cares litllo to como liiihor, except us an ollicial )»lacein:iii. 
The adventurous Scotctlinian generally sotiles in Canada, or 
some other ]jriti,sli province. Ho does not, indeed, object to 
a snug place ; and in some of the very snuggest of places, 
within the range of the ]>ritish empire, yon will liiid S(H)tc,h- 
mcn ; nor are they undeserving of them. But independenlly 
of phice or ofiico, the Scotchman Iuib numy motives bcisidcH 
which impels him to cniigrate. Any of them, howcner, 
seldom lead him to settle in the United States. To the 
United States como thxn hard-working Irish. If this is to 
o^n' credit, it should not bo deemed to their ^//.scredit. Wo 
should assuredly not turn upon them with disapproval for 
the inclination which moves them to seek their fortunes 
within the sphere of this broad republic. We have land 
enough and to spare, and they have strength — for want of 
which the hind is dead ; for land, or anything that the land 
contains, can only live by labor. But, as I have said, 
hithcrward the Irish come, and, with turns and changes, 
hitherward they will come. Every thousand that arrives is 
an encouragement ftn* ten thousand others. The fonaiin- 
ners, by their example, encjourage those behind them to 
follow. They supply them willi funds to enable them to 
come ; and by being here already, they strip exile of its 
repulsiveness in awaiting them with the welcome of friend- 
ship and society. 

But instead of looking at these emigrants in the mass, I 
will take one of them as an individual — an individual of th« 
working order — and trace him in four transitions of hiw 
course — namely, in leaving Ireland, in landing in America, 
in arranging for settlement, and in being settled. 

Departure from one's native shore for ever is, under any 
circumstances, a serious movement, and is melancholy when 
most hopeful. To bo able to quit with indili'erence the land 
of youth, of friends, and of all first emotions, I cannot 



138 Giles' Lectures. 

regard as a heroic virtue, but as a selfish vice. And the 
instinct of attachment to native things which makes it grief 
to part from them, is no matter of education. It belongs 
to the human heart, and it is a grief which is more likely 
to be poignant in the breast of the laborer than in that 
of the scholar. When we can consider how local and 
restricted laborious life is, especially in olden countries, we 
wiU not count the trial small which wrenches it away from 
all its native associations. These native associations are of 
great value ; and, whatever the political economist may 
assert, it is, I think, no common hardship that an honest 
man, who is willing and able to work, cannot, if he so 
desires, find subsistence in the country which boi'e him, and 
a grave in the soil which holds the dust of his fathers. The 
poor man's pride suffers by emigration, as well as his affec- 
tions. Whatever the poor man can glory in, after his con- 
science, Hes near him. The sphere of his life is not that of a 
nation, not even of a county, scarcely of a parish ; it is that 
of his immediate neighborhood. Beyond that he is not 
known, and away from that he loses consequence. There 
the worth of his character, when worth it has, is under- 
stood, and there are the witnesses of his integrity. His 
manners there are not grotesque, because they are in keep- 
ing with the manners of those around him ; and the habits 
which expose him elsewhere to mockery, are, where he was 
born, the habits of associates. That fortune of an upright 
fame, which was all the wealth he had, he loses for the time 
when he quits his home. The distant man will not know 
his claim — it may be, will be slow to learn it, or careless to 
give it credit. He must depart ; he must go he knows not 
whither, and he must meet he knows not whom. He must 
turn from the fields in which, while he had leave to toil in 
them, summer was pleasant, and winter was not bitter. 
Away in strange lands, he must look for another life, and 



Irish Emigration. 139 

try, as best he can, to learn it. Generally, it is poverty 
which compels him to quit his country, and poverty has 
manifold disadvantages. Even the outside of it is often 
read by the most benevolent as they would read a bill of 
indictment. Poverty is not comely, and, like an idiot in a 
family, the tolerance of it is local. It is not so with wealth. 
Wealth is for all countries, and has friends everywhere. It 
is cordial and inspiring to all who come near it. Wealth is, 
indeed, a most admirable talisman for the discovery of gra- 
cious people. The rich man upon his travels must be hard 
to please if he does receive all the attentions he can pay 
for, and they must be dull, with a stupidity not often found 
in civilized regions, upon whom the charm which he bears 
has no power. Bright looks and welcome wait upon it, and 
though heart is not salable, smiles are ready, and smiles 
are sufficient for the passing hour. Fair apparel and a full 
purse are always pleasingly intelligible ; and the best letter 
of introduction is a letter of credit. Music is said to be a 
universal language, but of no music is this so true as of 
the music of the mint. It is a fine softener of the harsher 
passions. Even bandits become tender to the sound of 
doubloons. They treat with distinguished consideration 
the plethoric trader whose money-bag is as protuberant aa 
his paunch ; but they pummel without remorse the miser- 
able pretender whose purse is as emaciated as his jaws. 

Practical philosophy in prosperous nations sets a direful 
mark upon poverty. Poverty, in the view of this philosophy, 
is a repulsive caitiff, a worthless villain, a most unmitigated 
scoundrel ; and a ragged wretch is a self-evidently ragged 
rascal. There is, however, a kindlier philosophy than this, 
and, I tliink, a wiser one, which believes that an honest 
heart may beat under a threadbare garment, and that even 
an emigrant clad in shreds may have a conscience of invin- 
cible integrity. 



140 Gihs Lidurcs. 

The Irisli emigrant used to leave the shores of his country 
niidor considerable ilhision, and although, of late years, 
niuoh of the illusion mxast have been dispelled, some of it 
may still remain. General reports concerning America 
reached him ■with many exaggerations — exaggerations 
which, coming to his imaginative temperament from the 
fur-olY land of his fjmcy and his hope, he easily believed in 
the land of his suiVerings and his despair. Private accounts 
wore seldom more exact than generid reports. The Ii-ish 
settler in America, who had attained to any degree of com- 
fort, wrote a glowing account of it to his relative or neigh- 
bor at home. Under the intluence of novelty and contrast, 
the settler could not write with cool exactness. Under the 
intluence of distress, and the desire to escape from it, the 
recipients of the letter found even more promise than the 
letter meant. Add to this that the writer was seldom 
master of expression, and that, if he were, the reader 
would rarely be able to enter into its precision. But it 
was not by words alone that such an encouraging illusion 
was excited, but by substantJAl evidence in the form of 
generous remittances. This evidence still continues. ^Nlay 
it always continue, while there is an Irish heart in America 
to remember that there is any home in Ireland which needs 
it. May the need become extinct, but may the heart be ever 
lovingly the same. Now, as at other times, from every part 
of this wide counti'y, the mails come burdened with rudely- 
directed letters. Many ai"e those for Ireland, and all the 
many contiiin remittances. They tell not of the hardship 
with which the money was earned ; they tell not of the 
sacrifices with which it was spared ; they usuixlly say — 
"We are well in health; we have work, we have good wages, 
we have comfort and plenty at the present, and we hope to 
be better off in the future." The dark side of the picture 
they conceal. Cheerfulness and help they give to their 



Irish Emigration. 141 

friends ; their griefs and trials they keep to themselves. 
Take into account how often this is the import of letters 
from America. Silent on disappointment, exultant on suc- 
cess, it will not seem surprising that, in spite of facts to 
the contrary, imagination will still outrun discretion in the 
minds of those at home ; it will not seem surprising that 
in such a country' — a country from which money comes in 
so great abundance — money must be in quantity beyond 
measure, and that money so liberally bestowed must bo 
easily acquired. Many a man, therefore, aVjout to emigrate 
even still fancies that, if once in the land of CJoIumbus, ho 
has only to show himself to obtain employment, and that to 
have employment is to be on the certain road to wealth. 

Perhaps some emigrants there yet may be who are under 
the old mistake of supposing a universal equality as charac- 
teristic of American society. If such there are, it will not 
be long after their arrival when they will l)o entirely cured 
of their blindness. If every error and prejudice under 
which men labor could be as rapidly and as effectually 
removed as this, our world would be one of transcendent en- 
lightenment and wisdom. The emigrant will find grades 
and social differences here not unlike to those which he left 
at home. No citizen in this country of the male sex, and 
twenty-one years of age, but can do something in inaking a 
President. For any particular citizen, however, to be made a 
President is really a hard matter. Some great citizens, men 
of magnificent genius, had struggled for it all their lives, 
and yet had missed it. It is for this reason that, whenever 
I am in conversation with a very ambitious mother, I 
always advise her, in her hopes for a gifted son, to bo mod- 
erate, and never to let her aspirations soar above the chief- 
justiceship. In testimony to the reasonableness of woman- 
hood and maternity, I must say that I have seldom met a 
mother who was not willing to be content with this modest 



112 Giles' Lirtuirs. 

expectation. Every mother cannot be a mother of the 
Gracchi ; neither can every mother be the mother of a 
President. In a word, and serionsly, the man is most wisely 
prepared to come hither, who comes with the conviction 
that he will have to enter on an obstinate and hardy etTort ; 
and the friend who aids him towards this conviction, gives 
him most elliciont help. 

The second stage of onr emigrant's transition, that of hia 
landing, is not a very cheering one. It is not a cheering 
snbjcct for description. The emigrant, whom we mnst take 
to represent a very nnnun'ons class, is often ill prepared to 
leave, and, if possible, worse prepared to land. He has 
Vmt touched the shore when many of his illusions disappear. 
The hard reahty which he finds, is unlike the vision of 
which he dreamed. Frequently he stands almost penniless 
in the city into which he is thrown. He was, at home, it 
may be, lumsed to towns, and he finds himself instantly a 
stranger amidst a measureless wilderness of streets anal 
throngs. The pressure of great masses surrounds him. 
The hum of care, of commerce, or of pleasure which fills 
tlie air about him has no sound in it that his fancy can 
interpret into welcome. But the emigrant is not always 
friendless; perhaps seldom entirely so. The same hospita- 
ble feelings which bind neighbors and relatives to one 
another in Ireland, are still more powerful when they come 
together in America. Shelter and food are often gratui- 
tously given, and this not for days, but for weeks. A poor 
man will not turn out an acquaintance whom he knew at 
lunn<\. while he has space upon his fioor and a slice remain- 
ing of his loaf. I am in possession of facts which convince 
me that there is ever going on among the Irish in this 
country a mutuality of assistance that strangei"s to the Irish 
character do not know, and cannot even imagine. 

The vices of the Irish are open, passionate, uproarious, 



Irish Emigration. 143 

often sanguinary; their virtues are silent, domestic, perf;onal. 
The vicious Irifshnian is marked by vices Avhicli attract 
attention. Ho is soon fell in a community of order as a 
disturbing character, and he is quickly brought to punish- 
ment. Undoubtedly ho deserves it; and let him have it. I 
liuvo noticed carefully, and with close attention, variously 
ilirected, the records of crime in the courts of this country. 
It could not be disguised, if it were desirable to deny it, that 
many of the criminals are Irish. But I have noticed that 
they are here much as at home, the criminals of the impulsive 
passions, seldom of the calculating ones. I have observed 
that the murders they have done, have been generally 
done in hours of insanity, and under the illusions of excited 
blood and brain. Not the better, I admit, than other kinds 
of murder, but different. When I have seen cases of astute 
incendiarism, with no object but to cheat insurance compa- 
nies ; when I have read about instances of cool and planned 
assassination, for the mere increase of property ; when I 
have noticed the execution of frauds that, \>y their genius 
and augustness of perpetration, gave the miscreants who 
contrived them infamous celebrity, I have rarely found them 
Iri.sh. "Wicked and recklosH, as to their passions, as many 
of the Irish in America may be in their vices, I claim for 
them a rare gentleness and kindliness in their virtues. 
Among these virtues is their neighborly affection, their social 
Immanity. Such virtues abound among them ; they abound 
without notice, beyond notice, and they abound no less in 
their emigrant than in their native relations. 

Among the Irish abroad there is something almost Jewish 
in their adherence to each other and to Ireland — except, in- 
deed, that now and then contests arise among them, which 
show that, like the Israelites, they have not in dispersion 
forgotton their feuds. Still, the analogy is, on the whole, a 
just one. The Iri.sh in America forget much that sei)arated 



144 Gihs' Lectures. 

tlioni fit home; and tlicy love as •svell as forget. "NYcre it not 
for the aid that residents iu America, from Irehmd, alibrd 
privately to recent comers, not a few of these comers would 
every season perish. I myself have known of zealous 
Catholics giving shelter to deep-blue Protestants, and iu a 
small apartment — more than illustrating the prophecy of the 
lion lying down with the lamb ; in the Eibbonman, in 
charitable hospitality, holding " sweet communion" with the 
Orangeman. Personally, I do not know that the Orange- 
man has done the same by the Eibbonman, yet I doubt not 
but he has ; for party hostility, which seems to have no 
medium of reconciliation at home, linds one in a common 
sensibility for country abroad. A numerous class must have 
work near the sea-board, or despair. Necessity thus crowds 
the sea-board cities. But even when the Irish emigrant has 
funds, he is too apt to remam in cities until his funds are 
exhausted. He falls then under a like necessity with him 
who was, on his arrival, destitute. Nay, by becoming an 
additional candidate in competition for leave to toil, he 
doubles the difficulty on them both. 

There is that in an Irishman's disposition which abhors 
the wilderness. I once knew an Irish Catholic who tried 
his hand at turning Protestant. He was a simple-minded 
and unsophisticated rustic. He had always been accustomed 
to crowds and companionships, whenever his heart was 
active, and without them his heart must sink. On his first 
day of going to the Protestant Church, the congregation 
was miserably small. The new convert became alarmed; he 
turned from the porch, ran back as fast as he could, nor 
stopped a moment until he felt himself warmly and com- 
fortably at JMass, in the sweltering perspiration of a throng 
which made his bones ache, but sot his heart at ease. I 
also knew a Protestant who, as he advanced in years, be- 
came very anxious as to the prospective credit of his funeral. 



Irish Emigration. 145 

His family had been popular, albeit they were Cromwellian. 
It was not the Bible portion of their trooper ancestor's 
sjDirit which came down to them, but the fighting, hunting, 
and drinking tendency of it. This was at least the part of 
it which this son of it inherited. His ancestor voted for 
penal laws, but never executed any. They fought duels, 
cracked jokes as they snapped pistols, and loved men all 
the better who had tried to shoot them, or whom they had 
tried to shoot. They were famous at fox hunts. The father 
of the individual to whom I refer had his stables covered 
with trophies gained in this heroic exercise, and was as proud 
of fox-tails as an Indian warrior is of scalps. The men of 
this family drank claret with Catholic priests whom they 
might have hanged, and winked at religious ceremonies 
which they had declared high treason. They horsewhipped 
peasants, but played footbaU with them ; they would not 
have them free, but they made them drunk. They were 
vigorous and hardy fellows. Not a man of them was ever 
sober at night, or a sluggard in the morning. They were 
great Protestants, but poor theologians. They would have 
stumbled in the Commandments. They gloried in Cromwell; 
but they knew as much about the doctrine of the West- 
minster divines as they did about Melchisedek's father. 
But they were wonderfully popular, and all of them had big 
funerals. O'Connell and politics stopped this course of 
things, and the individual to whom I allude felt that the 
change was a sore grievance. He wished to walk quietly 
in the way of his fathers, and be as numerously attended 
as they had been to the grave. He had not their hearty 
zeal for Cromwell, nor their hearty hati'ed of the Pope. 
It was a sort of mixed feeling that he had; it was like his 
whisk ey-and- water, half and half ; but the water part was 
his hatred of the Pope, and the whiskey part was his desire 
for the big funeral. As he could better do without the 



116 ales' Lectures. 

water to his whiskey than Avithont the Avhiskey to his 
water, he could more easily become lenient to the Pope than 
be reconciled to the idea of having a slender procession 
after his body to the grave. He, too, was popular ; for he 
was reckless, jovial, and social. In quieter times he might 
have died a Protestant, and yet had a mile-long funeral. It 
had in some manner, however, got into the popular mind 
that, at the last, he intended not to send for the parson, but 
the priest. This was his puzzle : If he sent for the parson, 
he would have but poor chance of an extensive procession, 
since he himself made, as he was a very large man, a 
considerable part of the small Protestant congregation. He 
was not only a large man, but Avas, in his way, and for the 
times, respectable. If he sent for the priest, he would have 
a burial worthy of his ancestors, and be carried to the grave, 
as they had been, with thousands in attendance. The wish 
for a big funeral was decisive, and he sent for the priest. 

This strong social feeling of the Irishman has its evil side 
as well as its good. It exposes him to much peril, and 
especially in circumstances that are new and strange. lu 
this coiantry, peculiarly, it induces him to fix himself in 
cities, and he soon becomes so enslaved in them that he 
cannot quit them. 

I have so far spoken of the Irish emigrant in reference 
to his departure from his own country, and his arrival in 
this. I have alluded, however, only to the emigrant as 
man. I must say a few words on the emigrant as woman, 
or, rather, as maiden. I wish I had not these few words to 
say, or, on this topic, any word. How I shall say them, 
is a pain, a difficulty, a perplexity; the very necessity to 
say them, confuses me with sorrow, feai", and shame. As, 
however, the necessity exists, and as the word must be 
spoken, it is better to speak it plainly. This word concerns 
the danger, the moral danger, that awaits young women in 



Irish Emigration. 147 

some of the ships to which they are trusted, or to which 
they trust themselves — a dreadful danger, which, if not 
escaped on the sea, prepares for them a terrible destiny on 
land. Of late years, we have had, from time to time, reve- 
lations showing that numbers of young women in emigrant 
ships have been made victims of the most heartless and 
hardened debauchery, not only by the crew, but frequently 
by the officers. Indeed, it is hard to see how the crew 
could incur such guilt without the participation or conniv- 
ance of the officers. No deeper tragedy can I conceive 
than the destruction of hapless girls, desolate upon the 
ocean, and strangers between two worlds. No deeper base- 
ness can I imagine than the villany of those who destroy 
them. There is in the innocency of a pure girl something 
so blessed, that I can hardly suppose that even a libertine 
would stain it. Indeed, a libertine, who had any moral feel- 
ing or imagination spared him by his vices, would guard it 
against its own weakness, and shelter it against himself. 
The grossness with which he was familiar, but which did 
not utterly kill his humanity, would by very contrast render 
this innocency holy in his sight. He would think of his 
sisters — ■ possibly of his daughters. The thought would 
rebuke his passions, and, however transiently, sanctify his 
character. What shall we, then, think of men who receive 
into their care and keeping an unsuspecting rustic girl 
from the arms of a weeping mother, and the silent sorrow 
of a not less loving father ; or it may be that the girl is an 
orphan, who has no mother to weep, and no father to grieve 
— what shall we think, I say, about the vileness of men who 
treacherousl}' betray the helpless, and destroy with a de- 
struction worse than death the being whom they were 
bound to protect, not merely by contract. of bargain and 
payment, but by every merciful, every honorable, every 
manly impulse. Give the case distinctness. A young girl, 



148 Gilea' Lectures. 

fresh from the fields, with the bloom of health on her 
cheeks, and the peace of honest maidenhood in her heart, 
is committed to an emigrant ship. She weeps as she quits 
her native land. She dreams sadl}' of her home, of those 
within her home, and, in her inward solitude of young- 
affliction, she lovingly calls back her childhood's life. But 
the tears of youth are soon dried up. Then come the 
prophecy of hope, and the vision of a sunny future. Be- 
fore she is well upon the wave, her imagination has already 
carried her across the ocean, and gives her, beyond it, many 
a pleasant picture, many cheering consolations — not the 
least of which is, the idea of the money that she will be able 
to send back to her poorer friends. But ere she reaches 
the New World, she is iwt Avhat she -svas when she left the 
Old. By cunning, force, or guile, she has been blasted. 
She has lost innocence, she has lost her own esteem, she 
has lost her reputation; for in the ship, as on the shore, 
there are community and social judgment. Not long since, 
she had virtue, she had the courage and the joy which virtue 
gives; but she is now, and especially to her own remorseful 
thoughts, a worthless thing — a mere worn rag of human 
nature; and nothing is left to her but hopeless guilt, with 
its anguish and its despair. "What need I dwell on the 
horrid fate which glooms over her arrival — the mad and 
short career, the early and the lonely death! 

Is it right to call the wretches men who thus crush the 
weak, and work such havoc by their filthy lusts ? Yet some 
of them are styled gentlemen. In the character of a genuine 
sailor there is much to admire. He is frank, generous, 
kind, and, when trulj' himself, he has a sincere respect for 
woman. Habituated though he often is with vice, it does 
not wholly briitalize him. He has times and seasons, in the 
solitudes of ocean, when he muses on home, on early days, 
on the girlish worth of his sisters, on the matronly sanctity 



Irish ICniigration. \'\\) 

of his mother ; luul iu such times aud seasons his better 
nature prevails. Ho beHevos iu virtue, and ho would sooner 
die than destroy it. These feelings do not always forsake 
him when he comes on shore. I was once crossing a strecit 
in New York. Two sailors were walking together. One of 
them made a rude movement towards a woman. "Slinmo! 
John," said the other; "remember that you have a sister!" 
But the mean creatures who iu emigrant ships dishonor tlio 
name of humanity arc no genuine sailors ; and genxiino 
Bailors should always bo considered as having no share in 
the infamy of those unmitigated scoundrels. If such scoun- 
drels cannot be suppressed, then should no Irish girl not 
fortressed by a family, and especially by stout brothers, bo 
committed to an emigrant ship. Bettor to stay at home, 
with any sort of privation, than run this deadly risk ; better 
toil and starve than venture where all that makes life 
worthy may be lost. Who, knowing]}^, would put his 
healthy child into a plague-ship? But a plague-ship is 
safety itself compared with a corrupt emigrant ship ; for 
the jjlaguo-ship can only kill the body, but the corrupt 
emigrant ship kills the soul, and kills the body too. Float- 
ing dens of iniquity must not be. No ! by earth and heaven, 
no ! By all that is just or true, civihzod or human ! by all 
that is dear in the home ! by all that is honest and noble in 
society 1 by all that is generous in man ! by all that is sacred 
in woman ! they must be put down, they must bo kept down 
— not merely by laws, but by that strong force of moral 
opinion which gives to laws their power, and without which 
laws are only solemn and formal mockery. The ship which 
has not adequate provision for health, order, and comfort — 
which has not all reasonable safety for decency and purity, 
should bo regarded as a receptacle of corruption, and 
shunned with a universal fear. Since the Irish do not 
emigrate in local communities, or in kindred groups, Irish 



150 Giles' Lectures. 

girls aro those, of all others, to whom captains should be 
fathers, and to -whom sailors should be brothers. Let ship- 
ONvners see to it. It concerns their interests as well as their 
characters. Indeed, emigrants in general, of all countries, 
that have not Avealth, are both ou the sea and on the land 
made to bear severititis and hardships from which ordinary 
justice and common humanity might easil3' save them. 

Being here, what should the emigrant aim at and prepare 
himself to be ? This is our third topic, and must be briedy 
treated. If he has nothing but muscular labor to depend 
on, he must, of course, give himself to any honest toil which 
he can find to do. The merest drudgery which keeps us 
from dependence, and into which we carry an upright spirit 
and a manly purpose, is not a condition of shame, but of 
dignity. I would have no man or woman scorn the hum- 
blest calling which can be followed with integrity; neither 
would I have any discontented. I would not that a word 
which escapes mo should seem to justify irritation with a 
man's prcnidential station ; I would not that it should 
excite in him a reckless desire to change or quit it. The 
hardest task can be softened by cheerfulness and resigna- 
tion ; and if it supplies the means of fair subsistence, it is 
not to be despised ; it is not to be relinquished with haste ; 
it is to be fulfilled with loyalty, and to be held with caxitious 
patience. Adventure, speculation, eagerness for riches, re- 
pugnance to common toil, contempt for sober experience, 
faith in golden dreams — these are among the most glaring 
faults of our age. Far be it from mo to preach such dis- 
turbing doctrines. But, nevertheless, I would have the 
Irish emigrant look upward and look forward. I would 
have him not only seek for competence as to the needs of 
the day, I woiild have him seek for permanent independ- 
ence. However lowly the possession might be at first, I 
would have him become a capitalist, an owner of property. 



Irisk I'hiiiin'dtioii. I f) 1 

A. ])iissii;^(i wliicli I rnniiil in ;i, ii('ws|i,'i|)('r, IVoiii {\\ci n|)('ccli 
of !i maiuir.'U'l.iircr in New Vorli, m,I, ji 1i;ui<|ii('I, jmvcii lo liis 
\V()rk-])(iopl(!- ihohI, of llicni, by llin by, (oni<;rjinl.M lni,H no 
nnu'.li good hcmh*! iti ii., iluii I liikci ii IViminciiii; or Iwo I'loni il,. 
"Before 1 i)!irl, with .yon," sjiid lio, " let- mo j^ivo yon m, U^w 
words of iulvicc. il/nnri/ in IJiiH oonni.ry in poinfr. Am Ion;;- 
lis you ii.'ivti inondy in yoiir poclvoiH, man or wonuui, boy or 
i;irl, you liiivo a frifiul thai, will prolcci yon wIh'U oI.Iku' 
IVinids I'orHiiko you." 'I'lui .spda-kcr llicn cNliorln niiin and 
woman, girl and boy, b) opisn an a,cci)unl, in a sn,vinf;s bank, 
bo ilio d(!posiiH ovor ho hiuuII, luid lo ojxn il. al, onco. I 
would prcac^h l.lni do('lrin(i of a.C(|iiiHil ion in no sordid iipiril. ; 
iioil,li(u- did UiiK gonllonnin so prciuc^ii il.. IJul, lliou<;ldrid and 
l)rovid(!id, uccinnulaUoii is iiol Hellish covol-ousiu'ss, l)ul. dis- 
int(U'(!Hi('d ('!i,r('ruln('ss. II, is iiol, a mojui vi(^((, bnl, a, noblo 
virl,uo -u vii'Uu) whixrh domosiic, and HocJal moraiiiy impcu'a- 
tivoly dcinuinds, and which doinosUc, n,nd Hoc.iid liln most 
bl(\ss('dly I'c^wards. I am no a,(lvo(',a,l,() I'oi" avarico or ambi- 
lion. J would, ind('(!d, oxcito iho H('.id,ini<!ni, of a,spira,l.ion, 
bul, il, is a,s])iral,ion rolh)wing ii,H ])urpoH(i willi (iarncHl, rcdii- 
iudc, and with manly pcirsovorancc?. 

Ah I would Imvo ilio Irish omigruid, pnipuro hiniiicH' lo 
beconio an Anusric-an cilizcn, and in dn(> iimo Ix-conHi one, 
I would hav<i him, with ail his lH\'i,rl, and iioul, (inl,(M' inlo Uk! 
geniuH of Amovic/an cilizonHliip. And spcnkin;;- in iho spiril, 
of tlio American mind, I aJlafOi noi iJic idea, of llrni, d<ci:;iv(; 
cihizoUHhi]) to l.h<! condilioii of (-icnaJ, dcpcndcnl, and daily 
toil. I do noi here; allndc. l-o nicro volin;;' (|ualiric;iiioii, For 
much besides l,lia,i is inchnhsd in iho cha,ra,cier of a, cili/eii. 
Tlio Am(;i'i(ran inind caiinoi join iho iiioiighi of a, perprdiial 
Btatc! of hire wilJi manly IVeedoni. 'i'his is ilie soiirc(^ of ioo 
much of iis ari'ogance, bui ii is also iho sourc-o of ils bold 
lu'ss, iis (ilasiiciiy, iis H(!ll"r(;Ho]vo, ami iis self rciliancc;. Tho 
American a(!COpiH a,ny wojk /n/' Iki' liiiu: if ii jiays. Ilci 



15*2 Giles' Lectures. 

does it dieerfully, he does it luaufuUy; but if it is at the 
bidding of another, he does not intend to do it always, or 
to do it long. The American journcj'man intends to be an 
employer. The American clerk has it in his own mind that 
in good time he will bo a capitalist. The American laborer, 
working on another man's farm, solaces his fatigue by calcu- 
lating how long it may cost him, if he likes the location, to 
buy the owner out. The American waitei", while handing 
round Madeira, resolves that, when ho gives dinners, he will 
be generous in Champagne. Lord Jeffrey once observed 
that, if a prize were offered for a new translation of the 
Greek Testament, some Yankee would begin the Greek 
alphabet, and win the prize while critical scholars in Europe 
were thinking over their versions, and resolving to set about 
them. Any man, therefore, who is satisfied with perpetual 
dependence, any man w'ho is void of aspiration, and incapa- 
ble of effort, is nol in harmony with the spirit of American 
life, and with the genius of American society. 

Property is of course of manifold varieties, and, in any 
form, gives the possessor stability and power. But I would 
desire to see the Irish emigrant more frequently than he is 
the proprietor of land. I may, however, want the experi- 
ence which would give me any title to an opinion in this 
matter. My reasoning may be unsound, my views illusive, 
and my ideas unpractical, yet, presuming as it may seem, 
I would say to the Irish laborer in America, " If you have 
means, settle on j-our own spot of soil ; dig for yourself ; 
be your own master. If you have not means, try to acquire 
them, and to this purpose direct your energies and your 
earnings." Life upon the soil ought, I think, to be congenial 
to the feelings and the habits of an Irish emigrant. The 
moor, the hillside, the meadow, the copse, the wood, the 
mountain, the potato-garden, and the grain-field, w'ere the 
scenes amidst which he was reared. Country sports were 



Irish Emigration. 153 

the amusements of his youth — country employments the 
toils of his manhood ; and when I myself go back and live 
in memoi-y, my dream is on the hill, looking around mo for a 
solitary Hhcpherd, or, in the harvest-time, gladdened by the 
multitude of mowers and reapers. As a tiller of the soil, 
the Irish emigrant would often, I fancy, call to mind the 
green pastures of former times, the song of the linnet and 
the lark, the familiar cock-crow, the deep notes of the black- 
bird and the thrush ; and though ho could not have all of 
these back again, he would enjoy, I should imagine, the life 
which came the nearest to that which he had among them. 
There is something, too, in the ownership of acres which 
Is grateful to an Irishman's pride. Though the acres which 
a man first acquires bring with them no boast of heirship, 
yet, if a man pines for a dream of ancestry, let him look 
onward to his grandchildren, and bo, as Sir Boyle Roach 
would say, " a grandfather to himself." 

To be serious, a hardy working man can find no position 
with so much dignity in it, with so much of real indepen- 
dence, as that of a cultivator. Toil on land ennobles his 
position, and removes his toil from all that would render it 
inferior or invidious. Toil on a man's own land, be the 
land ever so wild, is toil in a man's own right. It is the 
action of a sovereign, and the man is " free," as has been 
finely said, " from the centre to the stars." The advantages, 
socially, mox'ally, and economically, of such a position I can- 
not in this brief space exhibit, and there is no occasion, for 
they are easily conceived. Were the Irish emigrant more 
systematically than he has been a settler upon land, he would 
have had a place in the social scale of this country more 
favorable to his better qualities than that which he has 
actually held. He would then have been a creator of wealth. 
The agency which he has exercised in the national resources 
would have been more readily observed, and more distinc- 



154 Giles^ Lectures. 

tivcly acknowlodged. Tho cmigraiafc is, indeed, a creator of 
wealth ill inalviiig- a railroad as well as in tilling a farm, but 
Ins agency is not so clearly discerned. But when a garden 
is made to bloom where before only wild grass grew, then 
ihero can be no mistake. 

In rural settlement there would also bo the iulluence of 
Jived condition. Keligious feeling and religious habits 
would exert their due power. The home virtues would be 
cultivated and matured. Education would do its work, 
and have noticeable results. A fixed condition, besides its 
[xisitively good influences, would save Irish emigrants from 
many evil ones. Some of the worst temptations which 
beset the laboring Irish in this country belong to unsettled 
and xindefined relations with society. Land would be a 
centre of steadiness. Land is the basis of all wealth, for it 
is the feeder of all life. The man w'ho tills the soil which 
ho fairly owns cannot be poor, if the soil gives any due 
return for his labor. Banks may break down ; parties from 
opposite directions may prophesy ruin to the country; 
storms of eloquence may rage ; laws may be made and un- 
made ; but so long as the rain cometh down from heaven — 
so long as the earth is properly solicited to give forth her 
increase — so long as the farmer is allowed quietness for his 
toil, he will have seed for the sower and bread for the eater. 
That fixed occupation of the soil which I would recommend 
— that trust in regular industry which I would urge— that 
content in moderation which I would desire for myself and 
for others, are not in unison with the passionate spirit of 
our day. They are, however, the only means of a true 
prosperity, and, with all earnestness, I would wish to see 
the Irish emigrant acting in the temper of my philosophy. 
It would be his most elVectual guaranty against distress — 
his most complete emancipation from hopeless and servile 
labor. 



Irisli, Emigralion. l/jT* 

To tlio emigrant of Konio pationco and a liUlo mcanft, ili(!ro 
in IiLiid lioro open—land as teeming witli abundance an tlio 
sun ever warmed or as the rain ever watered. Hero it is in 
this mighty America, in its virgin freshness. It wooes tlio 
seeker ])y its IVeedom, and it waits for him with its bounty. 
H(!ro it is, with its wide and sweeping verdure, hjvely 
through its eternity of unused seascms. Here it is, with no 
despot or bailiff, with no distraints, no evictions — free as 
the air that blows over it, and rich as the dew that falls 
upon it. Hero it is, with its floor of mountains, plain, lake, 
and river, with its roof of lucent sky, for the exile to find 
his homo, and fearlessly to look ui)ward through the im- 
mensity of the heavens. Practical diiUculties, I know, are 
in the way, but none, I trust, which practical knowhidge 
cannot remove. If wisdom and expcsriencci do not i-einove 
them, the power of necessity must. 

If such an outpouring exodus should ever again occur 
like that in 1817, it must ccnisolidato itself into system, 
shape, and order ; it must take such shape and method as 
will compel isolated individualism to give place to collective 
and associated forces. The Germans, the Swedes, the Ntn-- 
wegians, come in bodies. This takes solitude from the 
wilderness, lays hold upon the desert in the strength and 
charity of mutual affection and companionship, plants at 
once upon it the living germs of society, and awakens it 
with the sacred voice of the temple and the home. Let it 
not be said that the Irish cannot do likewise — that they 
cannot travel together in agreement, or dw(!ll together in 
unity. 

But say what we please as to theory, the Irish emigrant 
will settle as character, capacity, chance, and circumstances 
determine ; and after a few years, he will be found in every 
occupation of trade, business, labor, and prof(;ssion. But 
I will keep to my idea, and close with the sn])])ohition thai 



150 Giles' Lectures. 

ho settles upon laud. I do not overlook the trials which the 
emigrant must meet in any space that is free and open to 
him. His shanty will be bare and rough, but surely it can 
bo hardly worse than that which a railroad laborer inhabits. 
His toil will be severe, it may be long, but the reward is 
noble in a permanent and settled independence. I look 
beyond a few years on the space whereon he has been 
working. I see no more the groundling hut. The wilder- 
ness has sprung into bloom. A comely dwelling is cm- 
bosomed amidst offices and orchards. A domain is con- 
(lucrod and possessed. Crops and cattle, rich Holds and 
full barns, evince the patient royalty of fortitude and toil. 
Here the needy friend may come without fear of trespass. 
Here the stranger may enter, and find no empty welcome. 
Hero there is no terror of an approaching rent-day, for God 
alone is the landlord. God made the earth that so it may 
be used. Thus it is prepared by man, and then it is 
a beautiful heritage for the children or the successors of 
him who thus prepares it. The barren place is made a 
garden. Children sport where the bison fed ; herds of oxen 
fatten where deer had roamed ; and the house-dog bays 
where wolves howled. The man, come whence he may, who 
contributes to this work his share of thought and nuisclo, 
does much to make society his debtor. The line action of 
genius is very pleasant, but the hard olVort of labor must 
come lirst. The pioneer and the settler must be in advance 
of the artist and the author ; the sounds of music nmst 
come after the echoes of the axe ; the painter must be in 
the wake of the hunter ; the ploughnaan must be before the 
poet ; and the hut must be the herald of the temple. 



I R I S TI - B O 11 N (J 1 T I Z K N S . 



As au Ivislmiiin, as an American citizen, -with many tics 
wliich bind me as sacredly to tlio land of my adoption as 
those which bind me to the land of my nativiiy, I speak 
here to my kindred countiymen in our new conntry. We 
have commnnity by the land of onr birth ; we have no less 
community in this land which has givisn ns an ho«[iilal)lo 
heritage. The ancient land is full of im])erishable memories 
— of memories which through centuries have kept the 
nation's brain excited and the nation's blood on lire. 'IMie 
ancient land is full of sublime retrospections — retros^jcctions 
of thought, of sanctity, of action ; and none but its basest 
and most unworthy children ever become insensible to the 
venerablcness of its character and the dignity of its fame. 
Ireland has, throughout the Avorld, given, in all modes of 
genius, a good account of herself — in song, story, elo(pienc.(\ 
history, philosophy ; in all sorts, too, of nobleness and vir- 
tue, in the kindliness of peace, and in the bravery of war. I 
am not here to dwell on the ancient glories of Ireland, or to 
repeat the sadly monotonous tale of her misfortunes. AVhilu 
recollecting both, my immediate purpose is to speak of some 
fundamental relations which, as citizens, wo have contract(!d 
and hold to the nation and government of the United 
States. 

First, there are industrial relations. As the great ma- 
iority of Irish who come to America are of the working 



158 Gilcs^ Lectures. 

class, they naturally settle in the Free States, or in States 
where slave labor does not predominate. Very naturally, I 
say, the Irish come to the Free States, because, in the first 
place, the labor market in these States is more ample and 
more profitable ; because, secondly, labor does not, in the 
Free States, subject a man to contempt and degradation. 
Thus, independently of all politics or parties, the Irish have 
come mostly to the Free States. Yet I have often heard 
much of the moral blame of slavery charged against the 
Irish, as if they had imported the Africans, who were torn 
by force from their native soil to minister in eternal bond- 
age to the white man's lust of gain. Now, it is a singular 
fact that no country has been so free from guilt of injustice 
to the African as Ireland. "When the slave trade was most 
profitable — when millions of money were made by it in 
Liverpool and Bristol — when Cooke, the actor, told his au- 
dience, in Liverpool, a piece of his mind thus : "Miscreants! 
there is not a brick in your town that is not cemented with 
Negro gore " — no Irish body of merchants would engage in 
it. An attempt was once made in Belfast to establish a 
slave-trading company. There was a meeting of capitalists ; 
a paper containing the terms of agreement was ready for 
signature. A venerable man arose and said, in slow and 
solemn tones, " May the lightning of God Almighty's anger 
blast the arm of the man who first attempts to sign that 
accursed document." The document remained unsigned, 
and Ireland was saved from the guilt of man-stealing, and 
from the guilt of the multitudinous murders of the middle- 
passage. Even before slave holding was thought a sin, Ire- 
land had small concern in it ; and on the twenty millions of 
West Indian redemption-monej", she made the least demand. 
And aU the world knows that the most eloquent denouncer 
of slavery who ever lived, the great orator who always made 
impassioned and electric speech the servant of justice and 



Irish-horn Citizens. 151) 

humanity, was an Irishman — I mean the heroic and daunt- 
less O'Connell. 

Until recently, both the great political jiarties of the 
country fraternized on the question of slavery, and both 
alike canvassed for the votes and favor of the South, as the 
South did for those of the North. Men of Massachusetts 
hobnobbed with men of South Carolina, and there was no 
talk between them on the moral or political iniquity of 
Negro slavery. In what ratio the Irish vote went with one 
party or the other, I do not know, and I never cared to 
inquire ; but slavery, one way or the other, could not have 
influenced it, since it is only of late that the question of 
slavery came openly into politics. 

The interest of the Irish, and also, I think, their inclina- 
tions, have led them to settle in their greatest numbers in 
the Free States ; but their toil has been important to the 
whole nation. They, of all immigrants, have contributed the 
most to that free labor by which the country has grown in 
prosperity and power. By their bone and muscle havo 
these great highways been built up which have become the 
wonder of the world. And only by means of these highAvays 
havo the successive additions boon made to the country of 
those wide and fertile domains which are truly its greatest 
wealth. Strong Irish workers have been of measureless 
benefit to the country; but also the country has been of 
measureless benefit to them. It has given them chances of 
life and manhood, when all such chances had been lost in 
the land of their nativity. The son of an honest railroad 
laborer may, with virtue and talent, become capitalist, ad- 
vocate, judge, senator, governor. President. Each party 
reciprocally benefits the other. America wants labor ; the 
Irish need employment. In this mutual relation both are 
fairly equalized. . The abstract impersonation of tluj Irisli- 
inan may say — " I have made your railroads, your canals ; I 



IGU Giles' Lectures. 

have boon the instvuinont of all your hardest toils." But 
then the abstract iuipcrsouatioii of the Americau reply — 
" Yes, it is all true ; I acknowledge the obligation. On the 
other hand, however, I had prepared the way for you. I 
had saved the capital from which you have had and have 
wages. We have, my friend, a common interest, we have a 
common country; but it is country more than interest that 
unites us. We are fellow-citizens, and as such we must 
cordially live and work together. Let no vile disturbers 
breed strife between us ; let us not fall out by the way; but 
let us seek strength in united and earnest brotherhood." 
Boasting on either side is unbecoming and uncalled for. 
Mutual osteom and nmtual respect are the generous feelings 
to be cullivated and maintained between the Irish-born 
citizens and those who, by precedence and priority of 
parentage, are natives of the land. 

AVe look next at some of the social relations to the country 
held by the people of Irish birth. I have heard the Irish in 
America accused of being claimish, and as having society 
oul}' among themselves. It should be considered that im- 
migrants are necessarily strangers to natives, and strange- 
ness, at first a feeling, may become at last a habit. Nothing 
is more natural than that immigrants should have much 
society among themselves. It is natural that, for a long 
while, they should feel as in a strange land ; and how can 
they more easily relieve this feeling than by holding com- 
munion with those who share their native memories, and 
with whom they can interchange native sympathies ? But 
the fact is, that of all citizens from abroad, the Irish are the 
least clannish. Tlioy live among native citizens, among 
them spend their earnings, speak the same language, and 
are one with them in all the large and generous comities of 
life. There are no citizens from abroad that, less than the 
Irish, separate themselves from what is native and natioiial, 



Irish-borji GUizcns. 1 (J I 

and it is often the complaint of Irish parents in this country 
that they cannot hinder their children from becoming more 
American than the Americans. No man is more cosmo- 
politan in spirit than an Irishman, or a man of the Irish 
race. He is quick, ready, cheerful, companionable — willing 
to please, and easy to be pleased. He hates isolation ; and 
wherever his lot may happen to be cast, he quickly makes 
himself at home. Irishmen, and men of the Irish race, are 
met with all the earth over. They are found in all grades 
of social station, and mental and moral condition — in all 
sorts of employments, intellectual or mechanical, secular 
or sacred. But to no country to which the Irishman goes 
from Ireland does he bind himself so heartily as to the 
United States. And this is no wonder. The United States 
gives him, if I may so express myself, a second nativity. He 
is born again into the sense of a new home and a new hope. 
Ho may fail, he may be disappointed, he may suffer griev- 
ously and bitterly; but no sensible Irishman will ever charge 
his failure, his disappointment, or his suiFering on the Amer- 
ican nation, its people, or its institutions. America, though 
distant, is not foreign to Ireland and the Irish. Much of 
their blood and bone, of their life and love, are on its soil. 
They may rightfully claim their share in the living substance 
of the American people. If home is most truly where our 
affections are, where those are to whom our affections attach 
us, then America must be to vast numbers of the Irish 
people most really their home. Among the masses in Ire- 
land there is a spirit of affection which looks on America as 
a land of promise, and the same spii'it among them here 
makes America their second country. With some unavoid- 
able difficulties, it is to them truly a country. But these 
difficulties will become less and less with successive genera- 
tions. There are fair chances for the industrious and the 
thrifty. The thoughtful and the worthy are as sure in this 



162 Giks^ Lectures. 

as iu any country in the world of honorable recognition. 
Talent of cvexy kind and degree, come from where it may, 
can find and make for itself means of usefulness and ac- 
tivity. Genius the national mind is ever ready to admire, 
and that with no grudging temper, and with no stinted 
measure. There must be struggles, hard struggles, to all 
who come into a new land and strange circumstances. 
Character is tested by these struggles, and the merit of 
those whom they prove, and who bear them well, fails never 
of its reward. Those who endure patiently, manfully, and 
wisely are sure in the end to conquer. The Irish in Amer- 
ica have not been inert, unsympathetic, or unaspiring. 
They are a strong element in all the activities of the nation. 
They have contributed their share to its w'ealth and power. 
They had their part in making its past history; they are 
now having a larger part in making its future history, and 
the future, I trust, will not same the past. 

Of the crimes and vices which darken and disturb social 
life, the Irish have also their share, and, I hope, not more 
than their share. But if the Irish have their part in the 
crimes and vices of society, they contribute also their por- 
tion to the sanctities and virtues by which society has life, 
strength, and security. It is further to be taken into con- 
sideration, that the crimes and vices to which the Irish are 
exposed are such as obtain an immediate publicity, and 
therefore, by their constant iteration in police reports, lead 
to profound misjudgments on the moral character of the 
Irish in America. It has been, of late years, the habit of 
certain speculative moralists to excite much alarm concern- 
ing the "dangerous classes," as these moralists term the 
vicious and the criminal w^ho come from among the ignorant 
and the poor. But are there not " dangerous classes " 
which also belong to the educated and the rich? One.un- 
natural murder, one instance of base and brutal lust, one 



Irish-born Citizens. 103 

great fraud, ono lingo breach of trust, one astounding but 
well-contrived bankruptcy, among those to -svliom the world 
has given credit for intelligence, honor, and refinement, 
are crimes that outweigh thousands of petty lar(!cnica, thou- 
sands of ordinary felonies, not merely in the gigantic mag- 
nitude of their immorality, but as fearful evidences of social 
corruption. Crimes of this Icind sliako the very foundations 
of public virtue, and are infinitely to bo droaded. Society 
has a right to guard itself against those who would injure 
it, whether they are high or low; it has a right to secure 
itself against them, both by means of prevention and peii- 
alty. But the moral character of a race or nation cannot 
be jvistly judged by that of the vicious and the criminal, 
whom it repudiates and gives over to punishment. Irish 
vice and crime is such as quickly meets its doom; Irish 
goodness and vii'tue, or indeed any goodness or virtue, do 
not thus openly come into public notice. In the social body 
as in the individual, wo feel disease more than we feel 
health; and so, in communities, vice is ever more observable 
than virtue; and yet communities would die if virtue were 
not, upon the whole, their permanent condition. I say 
nothing to excuse what may be evil in the Irish, or to dis- 
credit what may bo good in others. While in all people 
there is enough of good to encourage social faith and hope, 
there is enough also of evil to tax all moral forces in the 
work of social improvement. 

I come now to consider the most important and serious 
relation which the Irish-born citizen holds to the nation 
and government of the United States — the most serious 
and important that any citizen can hold to any nation or 
{^••overnmont — I mean the civic or political relation. This 
is the highest which he can hold, because it makes him a 
living member of the body-politic, endows him with certain 
advantages, and imposes on him correspondent duties and 



U>4 Giles' IatIuits. 

oblig'ations. It is Irue th:\t Ihe j;ovornmcnt, iiiul all that, 
arc outnistod with national authority, have duties and obh- 
i;atious towards the citizeu. Among tho most sacred of 
tlu^se are, respoct for his legal rights, and security to him, 
and liberty in tho legtd exercise of them. These principles 
are recognized, in theory at least, by every civihzed goveru- 
nient, ^YhatoYer be its form — whether it be a despotism, a 
limited monarchy, or a deniocraoy. So there are certain 
essential ideas implied in all govornments, such as suprem- 
acy, unity, and perpetuity — supremacy of authority, unity 
of jurisdiction, and perpetuity of duration. "Without these, 
organized order and regularity of function would be im- 
possible. Authority which is linal nuist bo somewhere, and 
it must be known and acknowledged, or there would be 
uncertainty and contest without limit. Tho want of strong, 
deliuito, recognized, central authority in feudalism, covered 
Europe for ages with private wars. The theories concern- 
ing the origin of authority in government does not in any 
way interfere with its nature ; it is alike supreme, whether 
wo ascribe a divine right to it, or hold that it derives its 
right wholly from the people. "When tho people have once 
organized their will into the best forms which reason, expe- 
rience, and wisdom can construct, then they have shaped 
for themselves an organism of supreme law to which they 
owe their allegiance, their submission, and their respoct in 
all cvmcerns properly within the limits of human govern- 
n\ent. The forms into W'hich the ruhng authority is organ- 
ized may bo changed, nniy bo moditied, may be improved, 
but authority there must still be. The administration of it 
may be criticised, may be praised or blamed ; the agents of 
it may bo displaced or punished; but this does not touch 
the essence or existence of the authority. It is a necessity 
of government, whether the government is cue of choice 
or of coercion — as necessary as supremacy of authority is 



Irish-born Citizens. Ifj5 

unity of jurisdiction. Tho laws must bo the siime in origin, 
BO far as tliey apply to tho same nation, and they must be 
of uniform cxocution. Thus, in this country, Stato laws 
uro made within each State, and within each State thoy 
are executed. One State cannot make laws for another; 
nay, ono part of a State cannot make laws for another part. 
The State authority is for State purposes, supremo within 
the State, and in so far, and no farther, it is sovereign. 

The laws of the nation are national, and, for national 
purposes, are supreme, and have through all the States a 
universal jurisdiction. Each State, of course, contemplates 
its own perpetuity. So does every nation ; and so, accord- 
ing to universal instinct and nccossity, does tho nation of 
tho United States. Without such a conviction, all govern- 
ment would be paralyzed. There could bo no loans, no 
treaties, no prospoctivo arrangements for tho future, not 
even the enactment of a law, since every law looks to the 
future, and not to the past. It is true that, in relation to 
God's time, tho continuance of tho longest empire is not as 
the boat of a second, Egypt's millenniums are not as the 
stroke of a pulse, or Rome's fancied eternity as tljo duration 
of a sigh. As God alone is great, so God alone is eternal. 
But with man's time it is diflbrent; and without the convic- 
tion of permanence, nothing great could ever have been 
achieved, or even conceived of ; the human mind would 
always have been dwarfish; States or Governments could 
never have been imagined; mighty thoughts of individuals 
or peoples could never have come into the birth of beauty 
or of majesty; but man must always have existed as a 
wretched and brutal savage. So, too, in comparison with 
God's government in the universe, the stability of all human 
government is a thing of transient vicissitude. The stealthy 
and silent clutch of the destroyer may seize tho strongest 
in the dark, when he has not the least suspicion of his 



I()() Giles' Lectures. 

(lani^cr. 'JMio proud cmporor of ]>;il\ylon, " king of kings,' 
fc'iisied with liis nobles when Cyrus cnino on Iiini in tli« 
niglil. and iraniplcMl his glory in ilio dust; and iho dcsccnd- 
aid. of Hint groai. Cyrus Avas himself hurled from his lofl.y 
111 rone by a young upslart. from ilie mountains of Macedo- 
nia. Still, man acts rightly and wisely in following, as best 
he can, tlio laws and principles which God lias for his guid- 
ance implanted in his iiaturo. 

Now tliG mition and govcniment of tho United States, 
like every luition and government, suggest to^our mind tho 
three ideas on Avhicli I have enlarged — supremacy of author- 
ity, unity of jurisdiction, and perpetuity of duration. It 
is as a nation tho United States havo been regarded by 
other countri(>s of the world, aiui on tho in-inciples hero 
staled Ihey treated with the Federal Covernment as with a 
governnKMit whii-h had supreme authority — of course, in 
government thus considered, I itu'lude Congress — to treat 
witli them; a.s a government which was one and complelo 
in itself, so far as these relations were concerned; and as a 
government which rested on permanent foundations — not 
here to-day, and gone to-morrow. Not only the Powers 
of the wi>rld thus regarded the nation and government of 
tho United States, but tho poorest emigrants fronx Enrope. 
It was not of this Stato or that they thought, but of tho 
American Nation. Owing iidelity to tho State in which 
they might happen to r(>side, still the feeling uppermost 
and most i)rcsent in their minds was that of being American 
citizens. The great mass of tho Irish come hither with tho 
intention of permanent residence, and they are seldom long 
in tho country before they nuxke declaration of that inten- 
tion upon oath. This intention and this oath imply not 
(Mdy an acknowledgment of the supremo civil authority, 
but also a belief in its pei'petuity; for surely none would 
think of makin;'- anv nation the home of themselves and 



Irish-born Citizvns. 167 

of iheir posterity, tlio p^ovornmoiit of which wuh luu^cu'tiiiii 
:uul fr(!l)l(>, luul \vhi(!h could uilbrd no Hocurity to hlxu'ty, 
l>roi)crty, or person. No people of ;iny seiise would put 
tluoiiselves within tlie j)ow(U' ol' tyrjuiny or amidst the mis- 
eries of uuiirehj'. Faith in a {^•ov(!rnm(!nt of streufjfth, of 
order, and of law is necessary to all social coiiUdeiice, all 
iiuhisli'ial energy in the present, and all hope in the futni-<!. 
Jhit people do come, and war has not hindered tluini. Tliey 
couio dcliberatively and aforethouj^ht, and thus testify their 
full (ujiilldence in the Avorth and secMirity of the juitional 
}^()V(!rjinient. They do this, too, upon oath. To a man of 
ili(i least (U)nscienee and intelligence, there is much in this 
that is very solemn — much to remind the adopted citizen 
of his obligation, and to briuf^ it more directly home to a 
thoughtful mind ihan it comes even to a native citi/,(!n. 
The foreign-born assumes citi/enship; the native-born in- 
herits it. The one has it from liis fathers; the other takes 
it on himself. With the nativo-born, it is involuntary; with 
the foroigu-born it is deliberative. If loyalty in the native- 
born has more in it of instinct and sentiment, loyalty in the 
foreign-born is enforced by all the sanctions of honesty and 
honor. And taking it for all in all, the Federal Union has 
deserved this loyalty from its foreign-born citizens. It has 
secuHid to them a politic^al e({uality throughout the Union 
as tlu! m(!mbers of one great nation; it has Ixicn a check 
on the excess(!S of party and of i'acti(jn — a safc^ginii'd against 
local pr(!Judi(^es and theol()gi(;al antagonisms. I Rpeak lun-e 
of constitutional [)rinciplcs as organi/(ul in the political 
nationality of the iTiiitcid States — not of this or that admin- 
isl-i-ation. of such or such act or acts of (Jongi'ess, of this 
or lliat set of nujasures. National uiiily has be(!n of incal- 
culaljlo advantage to the for(!ign-boj'U iidial)itants of the 
United States. If depench^nt on the scv(;ral Stat(!S, and 
separately, for their civic position, it would have bcon e.x.- 



168 Gi/fA-' Lectures. 

trcmely precarious, variable, and uncertain. In many cases 
it might have been vexatious, annoying, and humihating. 
But any such narrow tendencies in the States the hberal 
spirit of the national constitution disallows or counteracts. 

It is indeed true that each separate State has much power 
within it, both in its own concerns and in those of the 
nation; but there is a safeguard against any arbitrary use 
of it in the vast extent of the country, in the facility of 
removal, and in the aggregate good sense of the national 
legislature. But let the State circumscribe him as it may, 
the naturalized foreigner has still the rights and dignity of 
an American citizen. 

Foreign-born citizens have not been wanting in national 
loyalty. In all the trials which this country has gone 
through, from the lirst struggle for national independence 
to the present war, there has always been a foreign element 
in zealous union with the native. It ought not to be other- 
wise. The country in which people choose to live, Avhose 
benefits they enjoy, whoso honors they share, whose hopes 
they beqiieath to their posterit}', has a rightful claim to 
their aid and service, even to the sacrifice of life. To 
answer this claim may be simply fidelity to diity, but it ia 
fidelity to a sublime duty, and, Avhon the duty is bravely 
accomplislied, it amounts to heroism. Of such heroism, 
both in deeds and sufferings, among foreign-born citizens — 
and not least, among the Irish — history will contain im- 
mortal record. I ask no exclusive honor for the foreign- 
born, Irish or otherwise, in the present melancholy war. 
The native and the naturalized have been heart to heart 
and hand to hand on its blood-deluged fields, and amidst 
its dark and deadly tempests of iron and tire. They have 
alike shared in its victories and defeats, in its hardships, 
sicknesses, in the sharp agonies of wounds, and in the slow- 
consuming wiiste of fever. Many of the native, of youth 



Irish-born Citizens. IGO 

of tliG richest gifts and promise, have fallen in the bloom of 
their life, in the blush of their coming noon ; and beauty, 
and genius, and talent, and scholarship, and worth, goodness, 
nobleness, and honor have been taken from the earth for 
ever ; and the men that would have been the authors, the 
artists, the orators, the legislators, the merchants, tlio 
magistrates of the land have gone to their final slc(!p in 
bloody shrouds. But they " sleep well." They mot death 
in the ccstatiy of courage and patriotism ; their souls went 
forth in the cause of their country; and all the glory which 
this world gives to eloquence and poetry is not worthy to 
be compared with the fame and the love with which tlieir 
memories will bo cherished. So, too, numbers of the 
mature, who earned high positions in peaceful occupations, 
have given up their lives, and are at rest before their time. 
Their places on earth and in their homos will know these 
young men or their elders no more ; but their images will 
live in silent hearts ; and though the grief of these hearts 
has been such as cannot speak, they are comforted in the 
heroic deaths of their well-beloved. Yet tens of thousands 
who died unnoted, died as bravely; and they, too, left their 
memories in wounded and bleeding hearts. The Irish, who 
form a numerous portion of the laboring and al^le-bodied 
population, have contributed largely to our armies. Should 
we question the individuals who make up any Irish congre- 
gation or assembly, we should find tliat most of them had 
associations with the army, either by friends or kindred in 
the service, or killed — ay, l)y thousands killed — men who 
will no more bound with fearless enthusiasm to strains of 
martial music — will no more be awakened by the morning 
drum — no more obey the trumpet's significant sound — no 
more listen to the ear-piercing fife — no more have any part 
in "the jiomp and circumstance of glorious war." Still, these 
• — not the officers alone, but the most obscure private — had 

8 



170 Giks^ Lectures. 

those to -wlioin thoy •\voro dear, and by whom thoy ■were 
loved — parents -whom they liolped or supported, wives and 
eliildren, brothers and sisters, or some to whose hfe-long 
companionship they looked forward with the fondest hopes. 
Not in this country alone did the loss of them till lowly 
(hvelliiigs throughout the land with aiUiction, but brcnight 
sorrow, and tears, and wailinj;- into many a thatched cottag'O 
in Ireland — from Dublin to (.<alway, from the Cuant's Cause- 
way to Cape Clear. The Irish, both in command and in 
the ranks, have earned for themselves a place of soldierly 
and patriotic honor which will be generously, I trust, and 
not grudging-ly given them in the future history of this 
country. I had always conlidence in the national loytdty 
of my countrymen ; but I contemplated onl}' foreign 
enemies ; I had no idea that the nation's foes should bo 
they of its own household. The Irisli have been faithful as 
a mass to the nation and the government, and without hesi- 
tation thoy have shot down their own countrymen in the 
ranks of the enemy, by his own will or by force. I do not 
say that in battle they coiald well do otherwise. What I 
mean is, that in doing this work they did it without shrink- 
ing, and without scruple. In such a contest as the present 
every strong man counts ; and even of the man who goes 
into it as a substitute, we should not meanly think, for ho 
shows at least one good qiiality — a quidity most excellent in 
•war — that of courage — at least, contempt of danger ; and if 
wo are to have mean thoughts of any one, it should be for 
the man who, without very sufficient reasons, sends a substi- 
tute — shuns himself tlie danger, and keeps quietly and com- 
fortably at home. Honor, as FalstalV reasons, cannot set a 
leg or an arm, or take away the grief of a wound; it hath no 
skill in surgery. Honor is but a word, and a word is but a 
breath ; therefore, he'd have none of it. A very wise con- 
ilusion, we nnxy think, for one who wishes to live and dio 



Irish-horn Citizens. 171 

in a whole skin ; but, in truth, the reasoning is false, and 
the conclusion is as fooUsh as it is base. The selfish niaj' 
think of Patriotism as Falstafl' thought of Honor ; and if 
they prefer to live with the contempt of their country to the 
risk of dying for it, they may enjoy their ease and their 
opinion, but no true man will envy thoni in either. 

Much discourse on the present Avar would lioro be very 
absurd. Historically, politically, morally, critically, Ihian- 
cially, in fact, in every aspect of it, it lias been discussed 
most thoroughly, and will continue to be so discussed, while 
it lasts, in every place of speech and in every form of print. 
I could not omit the topic ; but as I have nothing now to 
say or suggest, my remarks will be as brief as I can make 
them. The necessity of brevity may seem to make my 
statements dogmatical, but thai I cannot help, and cannot 
avoid. I think the Houihern leaders of their own will 
l)rought on the war, and I think they desired to bring it on; 
I think they were prepared to bring it on. The election of 
Mr. Lincoln did not so much subvert their power in the 
Union as break their monopoly. This was the turning- 
point at which they decided to carry out their foregone con- 
clusion. They had still great power in the country, but 
they had not the whole power. Having lost controlling 
sway in the Federal Union, they hoped for an absolute sway 
in a separate Confederacy; they hoped also to extend this 
Confederacy into a mighty empire. So, when the country 
was at peace with all nations — when it had recovered from 
severe pecuniary distress, and was in the stoutest vigor of 
monetary strength — when gold came to us by the ton, and 
Heaven had blessed us with a most abundant harvest — 
when our commerce had begun to amaze the world, and our 
power excited its fear and compelled its respect — when the 
increase of our greatness and prosperity seemed oven to 
outrun desire, these men of guilty discontent invoked the 



172 Crile.s' Lectures. 

demon of disunion, and with liini all the miseries that ac- 
company and follow civil war. The war was inevitable, and 
was begun by the South. ]\lr. Lincoln was constitutionally 
elected, and became chief magistrate in the traditionary and 
appointed mode. He was no radical or revolutionist ; ho 
was rather conservative and conciliatory; and the South 
made this election the occasion of the bloodiest civil Avar 
which history records. Mr. Lincoln was elected ; and 
think of Mr. Lincoln as we may, intellectually, morally, or 
politically, we cannot think it crime that ho accepted the 
"gvoatnoss thrust upon him.'' Being elected, what could 
he do? Was he to consent to divide that Union which, 
in the sight of Heaven, and in the presence of assembled 
thousands, he had just sworn to maintain ? "NVas he to 
subvert that constitution which ho was made President to 
defend, to uphold, and to obey? He had no choice. The 
war began with the South. The President, as best he 
could, had to meet it. Loyal millions agreed with him. 
The war, on the part of the North and of the national 
authorities, was evidently' unexpected ; and it was as evi- 
dently prepared for on the part of the South, or of its 
leaders. Suppose the Federal Government had at once 
assented to peaceable separation. It would have been a 
submission to dictation ; for it was in this spirit that the 
Southern leaders acted from the first ; and such submission 
would have justiticd all the contempt which the champions 
of the South have invariably lavished on the people of the 
North. The people of the South have long been, in their 
own esteem, the patricians of the nation, and those of the 
North, according to their estimate, plebeians and peddlers. 
"Would Northern churls dare to meet Southern chivalry ? 
They have done it ; they have vindicated the character and 
manhood of the North, and shown that, if the North loves 
wealth and hfe, it loves the Union and a complete nation- 



Irish-horn Cilizens. 173 

ality better. For these it Ii.'ih spent and will fipend wealth 
and life, nor think the spendinf,' vain. When the war 
began, many in the North supposed it would be a short one; 
some said thirty days, others went as far as ninety; but it 
really rer^uired no prophetic sagacity to foresee that the war 
would not bo one of days, or of weeks, or of months, but of 
years. Such prophecy was, at first, regarded, not merely as 
false, but as ungracious, if not disk^yal ; and yet it is hard to 
see what interest any one not a contractor could have in 
making it. Both parties were obstinate, determined, and, 
in some respects, fairly balanced. If the North had more 
men and money, the South liad the advantage of a defensive 
position, of local knowledge, of a people almost ready-made 
soldiers, of oflBcers among the most educated in the nation, 
with two or three commanders, as experience j)roved, of 
original and extraordinary military genius. The North had 
on its side solid character, steady bravery, a cause made 
noble by a sense of right, and made sacred by venerable 
traditions, and by the memory of great names. But the 
best moral qualities, though sure in the long-run to win, are 
not always the most successful in the beginning of a war. 
No cause could have been more just than that of Germany 
against Napoleon, and yet the French scattered its armies 
for years upon th(;ir fatherland as chaff Ijcfore the wind. 
The battle of Leipsic did, indeed, reverse the battles of Jena 
and Austerlitz, but the reversal was a good while in coming. 
The people of the South, as we hold, had a bad cause — all 
the more, their natural and undoubted bravery had the 
fierceness of desperation. They became revolutionists, in- 
novators ; they took the fatal choice, and were not likely 
quickl}' to repent or come to reason ; they cast their lives 
upon the die; they trusted their fortunes to the " God of bat- 
tles," who stands novj in our prayers for the "God of peace;" 
they drew the sword, and they cast away the scaljbard. 



174 Criles' Lectures. 

"Wo are now in tlio tliird year of the wai", and the end 
is not yet. Wo have still much to bear, and much to for- 
bear. AVo have to guard against divisions and despondency; 
also against spasmodic exultation. We need the ardor of 
hope as well as the enthusiasm of courage; we need the 
bravery of patience as well as the bravery of action. Wo 
are in the midst of a stupendous struggle. How awful its 
magnitude is, will be seen in history through the perspec- 
tive of centuries. It is no time for paltry spites, or for vitu- 
perative accusations; it is no time for bandying bad epithets, 
or for calling each other names; this work is lit only for 
angry fishwomen or unruly wives. Even with respect to 
the encmj' himself, let us beat him with good blows rather 
than with bad riietoric. " Let us deliberate," said some one 
in the French National Convention. "Deliberate! delib- 
erate !" shouted the fiery ]\Iirabeau ; " deliberate, whilo 
Hannibal thunders at the gates of Rome." So, while we 
are in this mortal strife, it seems unmanly and as unworthy 
to say, in word or act, " Come, let us have a war of words 
that shall outsound the war of blows; let its be heroes of 
the tongue; let us have glorious political scolding-matches. 
W^e may be the contempt of nations, but wo shall be demi- 
gods in our own esteem. Posterity will imnaortalize us; 
will build monuments to our memories, and inscribe statues 
with our names." In the moan time our speechless soldiers 
languish in hospitals, grow dispirited in passive vigilance, 
or bleed out their heart's life in mortal battle. There is no 
need that wo should give up our opinions, but only for the 
time put some generous restraint upon the Avill. An honest 
physician who watches over a patient in a critical condition 
will throw theories of physic to the dogs, and do that for 
his patient which his best skill and the danger of the mo- 
ment requires. If ho calls in other doctors, he and they will 
feel the solemnity of the occasion, and try to meet it, with 



Irish-horn O'dizcns. 175 

grave and thonghtinl knowledge. Tlioy will not, like tlio 
quacks whom Lo Sago so admirably describes in " Gil Bias," 
dispute about their systems, and let the patient die. Let 
us think of Presidents as wo may, the country, to our 
thoughts, should be eternal. Presidents, as the fates may 
order, will run their course of four years in wisdom or in 
folly; but the desire in the heart of an American citizen 
should bo, "Let the Union live for ever." Every American 
citizen, native or adopted, should stand by the country, and 
stand by it at any cost. The country is worth the cost, and 
though the individual may lose his life, or suffer mu(!h, the 
integrity of this maguiliccnt country is the grandest inherit- 
ance that any man can leave to his posterity. 

In the course of my remarks, I have entered into no 
discussion on the conduct of our military afl'airs, in the 
Cabinet, the field, or the camp; on ability or want oi it in 
command; on victories or defeats, on their causes or their 
conse(«iences. I am no military critic, or, indeed, political 
either. My vanity in either of these relations is perfectly 
inviilnerable. I am even better off than was Achilles, 
since, as I never have been in the national council, no 
public scribe can impeach my statesmanship, and as I have 
never been in battle, I could never have got a wound in the 
heel, even in running away. I have entered into no discus- 
sion on the complications of politics which had preceded 
this war, and which have become more deeply entangled 
and involved as the war has advanced. I return to one 
simple position. It is the duty of every man to stand by 
the country in its peril, and it is also his interest. All hon- 
orable minds, in shaping their manner of existence, look to 
praise as well as to profit, and the most honorable minds 
think not so much of the praise, as of the merits that sliall 
deserve it. And when the day comes, as come it will, when 
this great American nation shall have vindicated its rnajestic 



176 Giles' Lectures. 

integrity, the late posterity of those who fought or died to 
gaiu it will have a fame grander than even Shakespeare has 
given to those who battled on the field of Agincourt; and 
when the last fight of our sad struggle is fought, the elegant 
young men who show themselves in our towns, but who 
take no dangerous part in the strife, and gentlemen who 
dine pleasantly of days and lie quietly abed o' nights, shall 
think themselves accursed the}' were not there, and hold 
their manhood cheap. 

But some people say, "Why not let us have peace ? or, at 
least, why not propose some terms of peace ? No humane 
or Christian heart beats that does not desire peace. We 
must, however, count the cost of peace as well as the cost 
of war. When two parties go into contest, one must suc- 
cumb to the other, or subdue it. We must have the better 
of the South, or the South must have the better of us. 
They or ^Ye must dictate the terms of reconciliation or re- 
construction. If we dictate the terms, they must be those 
of the Union, one and indivisible. If Ihey dictate the terms, 
they must be those of disunion and independence. What 
likelihood is there of agreement? I see none at present. 
The South is not, as yet, either powerless or hopeless. It 
will have independence or nothing. It has not cither here 
or in Europe given the hint that it will be content with less 
than independence. Even the timid and cautious sugges- 
tions in favor of compromise thrown out in a few places 
South have been generally scouted with indignant reproba- 
tion, and this too in districts of the South which, we are 
told, are suffering incredible hardships. According to all 
human appearances, the cost of peace now would be the 
loss of the Union. Are we prepared to pay that price ? If 
we are, w'e ought to have paid it long ago, and spared hu- 
manity the countless miseries of a fratricidal and desolating 
waa*. Perhaps some would say, in the words of a celebrated 



Irish-born Citizens. 177 

politician, " Let the Union slide ;" others perhaps would 
say, " Let the South go." This cannot, must not be. Groat 
as the extent of our territory is, there is not room, at least 
on this side of the Rocky Mountains, for two separate gov- 
ernments. Suppose that aU the space which the Southern 
people occupy was nothing more than a natural wilderness, 
ought the people of this nation to allow a foreign power to 
plant itself on the soil? How much less ought they to 
permit an antagonist and angry rival force to build itself 
up against them. That force would command a vast sweep 
of ocean boundary, and the outlet of the most important 
system of rivers in the world. It would be against reason 
and against nature that twenty millions, always increasing, 
should allow themselves to be girded all about in a sort of 
geographical imprisonment by a nation which begins in 
bitterness, and which would continue always to be in oppo- 
sition to us. It woiald be political insanity not to hinder 
this, if we can. Between us and such a power there would 
never cease to be inflammatory irritation and jealous rivalry. 
We are too near each other to live at peace, as two coun- 
tries, or, as such, to have safe or durable conditions of 
alliance. The present lamentable strife will, I know, leave 
deep and red scars behind it. Time, however, will heal 
them, when we are again united ; but let us be permanently 
divided, then late generations will find these scars sore and 
fresh. At any cost, we must do our utmost to prevent such 
a result ; and we are justified in doing so, not merely by 
political foresight, but also by the instinct of self-preser- 
vation. 

To let a nation erect itself beside us and against us, with 
means to work us mischief in that wherein it agrees with 
us as well as in that wherein it differs from us — to let a 
nation arise, with unlimited space for extension — to let it 
gather its strength into a force which towards us would 



178 ones' Lectures. 

long be the force of enmity, with a hatred all the more ob- 
stinate and implacable, because it would be the hatred of 
revolted kindred — this would be a combination of madness 
and folly, for an example of which we might search all his- 
tory in vain. Loyal citizens, native or adopted, are bound 
by duty and by interest to save the country from so ruinous 
a catastrophe. Sui'ely it cannot be, while the land contains 
bravery and fortitude to fight, and to keep the faith of man- 
hood and integrity. Generations yet unborn will bless the 
memor}^ of those whose heroism and suffering held safely for 
them, amidst mortal anguish, the inheritance of a common 
country. 

Moreover, this contemplated empire is to be a slave 
empire. Over slavery in the States, separately, the nation 
had no legal control. It was properly a municipal, not a 
national institution ; and the communities among which it 
existed had a right to deal with it as with their other purely 
local concerns. We should be no more entitled to make 
war on the people of the South on account of slavery than 
we should on the Hindoos on account of Brahmanism ; on 
the Tartars or Chinese, for Buddhism ; on the Turks, for 
poUygamy; on the Abyssinians or Ethiopians, for eating 
raw beef. I have myself never had but one opinion about 
slavery, and that I have had since I could think. It is, that 
slavery is radically unjust. And I believe that, in the prog- 
ress of human improvement, a time will come when it will 
be as great a wonder that men ever bought and sold men 
as that they ever cooked and eat men. Opposition to sla- 
very has been with me a matter for which I claim no merit. 
It grew with me from instinct into thought, from thought 
into passion, from passion into faith ; and I gladly hail the 
day, however distant, when no man on earth shaU bear the 
name or burden of a slave — when the human countenance, 
and the divine image in the human soul, shall be everywhere 



Irish-horn Citizens. 179 

recognized as the sufficient title of a free birth-riglit. This 
faith I have ever held as a matter of individual moral con- 
viction. I have never connected it with politics or party; I 
have never hesitated to declare it. I have never held slave- 
holders simply as such, as under one sentence of universal 
condemnation for their inheritance from an evil past in 
which, at one time, all the nation shared. But the estab- 
hshment of a consoHdated slave empire is a matter which 
involves the whole South. It would be a new and voluntary 
creation — a shocking and ghastly political spectacle in the 
presence of the civilized world. It would be the first in- 
stance in all histor}' in which an empire was openly and 
professedly founded on the principles of slavery; the first 
instance in which a revolution orignated in the interests of 
slavery. Many are the wars and the revolutions which 
the world has witnessed ; but it has been given to civihzed 
men in our day to glorify bondage, and to try to make the 
spirit of it the new hfe of a new nation. Many rebelUons 
there have been, defeated or successful ; but professedly, at 
least, they have been for liberty, never for slavery; always 
they have been to break fetters, not to bind them ; to extend 
the area of human freedom, and not the area of human 
chains. The would-be architects of this proposed empire 
plainly announce that the foundation and the corner-stone of 
their structure is the perpetual enslavement of millions in 
America, partially or wholly, of the African race. The 
establishment of such an empire would be a measureless mis- 
fortune, with its remorseless charter of eternal bondage, 
its multiplication of markets for the home trade in hviman 
beings, and its murderous commerce abroad for a foreign 
supply. This would be to roll the world backward with a 
vengeance. Nations there have been in the pagan past who 
had no scruple in robbing men of freedom, but they did not 
boast of slavery. The ancient Romans, proud and oppressive 



180 (^tei Lettutts. 

as thoy woro. honestly, in thoii" huviS, admitted that slavery 
was a cv'>oiYivo and not a natural human oondiiiou. "\Vo do 
not find that aiicient liten^tux-e sought ins].>ii*ation from 
slavery, that eloqnenee gloried in it, that the drama exalted 
it, or that it wtxs celebrated in btillad, song, or epio. Even to 
those heathen men, it was to their better feelings a moral 
and a social disgnice, which no poetry could boantify. -which 
no art could ennoble. Modern and Christian genius has had 
for it a still pi\>founder repugnance. No freeman in the 
midst of freedom could sing the blessings of the chain, nay. 
nor could a humane master sing them in the midst of 
slavery. The slave himself may sing to lighten his toil or 
to relieve his heart, but ^r" must be a pitiless misci'eant who 
could find mnsie in the bondsman's fate to enliven the 
banquet or the ball. And yet I have seen comments in 
Northern journals which left it to inference that Southern 
slaveiy is better than English free labor. Now, no one 
who reads English papers will deny that social statistics 
thei'e pivsent a frightful picture of ignoi'ance, brutiUity, 
misery, vice, and crime ; poisonings which beat the skill 
and cnnning of Italy in the Middle Ages ; domestic vio- 
lences and murders in most horrible varieties ; infanticide 
reduced coolly to a system, as if babies wore begotten and 
born only to be buried, so that their parental murderei-s 
might have wages for killing their own offspring in pjvltry 
bnri:\l fees. In the statistics of English vices and crimes, 
some vices and crimes exceed belief. They are not only out 
of nature, but often seem to have no possible motive. They 
seem to be the oflspring of an epidemical moral and social 
insanity, or as if some liend, the most expert in cruel and 
licentious temptation, had Enghvnd given to him by the 
father of sin to be for a time his especial province. 

All this is lamentable and terrible. But would slavery 
euro it ? If slavery is a remedy for vice and crime, where 



Iris/trOf/rn (JUizenf. 181 

mufit we limit the application of it? The vice and crime of 
IWif/hind, or of any countrj', are not confined to it« d<iHtitnte 
or to itfi laboring claHKCs. If the laboring cla8«e8 are tr> be 
enslaved to prevent them from doing wrong, and to give 
them the W;curity, the IjIcKKednefis, the Eden-like innocence 
and enjoymentH of a .Southern plantation, what i« to be done 
for the naughty middle and ari«tocratic clafises — a«, for in- 
fitance, when a British girl, who can speak excellent French, 
poisons her unsuspecting lover in an affectionate cup of 
coffee ; when a sporting duke plays the rogue upon hia son, 
and leaves to him the inheritance of beggary; when a titled 
scamp Vjecomes the plague of his family, and eats out, or 
drinks out, or games out the provi«ion of all his brothers 
and si-sters ; v/hen a nobleman allures his son into a solitary 
rural ride, and tries to assassinate him in order to become 
his heir; when a middle-aged couple first rnurder their 
landlord, and then their three children? But enough of 
this, and too much. Would slavery be a remedy? If so, it 
must not be confined to the working or to the destitute 
classes. It must not be confined to toiLsmen, or aristocrats, 
or vicious grocers ; it must also extend to authors and 
authoresses. French literature used to Vje accused of find- 
ing its most exciting interest in the breach of a certain 
commandment which it is not necessary to quote ; but of 
lute English literature has its greatest stimulus in comment- 
ing on that commandment which says, " Thou shalt do no 
murder." But all the most popular English fiction of the 
present day deals with murder ; it lives in an atmosphere 
of death ; it goes away from the open light, from the 
blessed day; it prowLs through the gloomy concealments of 
nightly conspiracy and crime ; and liomance, which used to 
be our delight, becomes our fear; reading it now seems 
like serving on a coroner's jurj-, or being present at any 
number of remarkal^le hangings. The Newgate calendar ia 



182 Giles^ Lectures. 

flat and stale as compared with our present murder-litera- 
ture. It is as if we should put Jonathan Wild the Great on 
a level with a common pickpocket. And ladies are the 
most famous in these blood-and-thunder novels. Midnight 
meetings, and all the works of darkness, seem to give them 
a very strange delectation ; but how far they can think it 
edifying to their universal sisterhood, from fifteen to forty, 
to have theii* brains saturated with thoughts of guilt and 
death, to have assassins and their victims be the shadows in 
the day-dreams of virgins and of wives, and bloody spectres 
haunt the visions of their nights, that is a matter to be 
settled with themselves. Perhaps, as none more crave to 
see a man hanged than women, women, as the next best 
thing, like to write about it. It is a sad sign of the times. 
Money is made by these novels of murder. It is a pity, for 
most of us would rather see women associated with love 
than with murder. But slavery would be no remedy for 
the morbid social and moral condition which give these 
lady quill-di'ivers the materials for their nightmare compo- 
sitions. Slavery is no remedy for any disease that flesh is 
heir to. 

I have spoken freel}', I have spoken plainly, and I have 
spoken on my own personal responsibilit}'. If I have as- 
serted strongly the necessity of the war, just as strongly do 
I lament that necessity. I rejoice, but with no savage or 
arrogant exultation, in our victories ; for if the Duke of 
WelHngtou said, with respect to foreigners, the saddest thing 
next to a defeat is a victory, how sad then is the best alterna- 
tive when the victory is over our own misguided brothers, 
with whom we had been once united in the spirit of kindly 
companionship. I am not vindictive against the South. 
I admire its courage ; I admire many instances of genius 
which have been displayed in the course of the war, and 
still more many instances of generosity and humanity. I 



Irish-born Citizens. 183 

think that when the history of the war comes to be written, 
that it will be seen by posterity that no civil war of equal 
magnitude has ever been conducted on both sides with 
more reverence for the sanctities of honor and of life. 
People will not now agree with me ; but these people who 
do not agree with me, cannot have studied the history of 
the civil wars of the Romans, or those in the Middle Ages ; 
they cannot have studied the history of the Thirty Years' 
"War in Germany, or the history of the insurrection in 
Ireland in the year seventeen hundred and ninety-eight, 
and above all, they cannot have studied the history of the 
first French Revolution. Still, both in speech and action, 
passions hating and hateful have, as it was inevitable in such 
a war, displayed themselves, that, as it had been hoped, 
could not have been excited in the nineteenth Christian 
centui'y. Neither side is a. fair judge of the other in this 
matter ; that supreme verdict the God of eternal justice 
knows ; and He who is the Searcher of hearts will hold 
every individual soul to its own personal account. The 
cruel, the blood-thirsty, the rapacious, the lustful, on what- 
ever side they be, will have to meet the dread sentence of 
an infinitely righteous Creator. 

But to conclude : We naturahzed citizens, from Ireland 
or elsewhere, have a simple duty. We walked hopefully in 
the brightness of the nation, and we rejoiced in its hght ; 
we must not despond or grumble in the interval of its 
trouble. We shared, or had our chance to share, in its good 
things ; it is I'ight that we should also share in its evil. 
Our blood has been prolifically poured on the battle-fields of 
the country, and there is no danger that we shall dishonor 
the memories of those who shed it. 



IRISH CHARACTER, :^[ENTAL AND ]\IORAL. 

I AM to speak on Irish character, mental and moral. I 
beg-in with Irish mental character. That part of the mind 
which ^Ye call intellect ; that part of the mind which deals 
with thought and argument, reasoning and ideas, is, in the 
Irish, quick, sharp, strong, and active. The Irish mind 
combines readily and rapidly. It delights in analogies and 
analysis, in criticism and controvers3^ Hence, perhaps, the 
success of the Irish mind at the bar, in the pulpit, in the 
popular assembly, in all those positions which demand the 
spontaneous ti-ansmission of thinking into speech — thinking 
that is never far from passion, and speech that usually is 
instinct with the spirit of imagination. The logic of the 
Irish mind takes naturally, therefore, the form of rhetoric 
or oratory-. The action of the Irish understanding, united 
as commonly it is with fancy and emotion, qiiick to yield 
to the influence of sympathj' or antagonism, kindles readily 
into eloquence — into eloqiience of persuasion and convic- 
tion, or of contest and invective. But the Irish intellect 
has also shown its force in profound and abstract thinking. 
It is much given to mathematics. So dispersed used to be 
this kind of knowledge in Ireland in my time, that small 
local almanacs were full of questions, from mere crambos 
and puzzles in arithmetic and algebra iip to the higher 
regions of geometry and the calculus. The gentlemen who 
condiTcted the trigonometrical survey of the kingdom declared 



Irish Character, Mental and Moral. 185 

that they found youngsters in abundance to do their calcu- 
lations at a halfpenny a triangle. The Irish intellect is not 
loss given to metaphysics, as many subtle and deep thinkers 
bear witness, from Scotus, among the greatest of early 
scholastics to Berkely, the father of modern Idealists, 

From the earliest Christian times know to Western 
Europe, the Irish mind has been celebrated for its devotion 
to theology, for its attainments in ecclesiastical learning ; 
and during a long period these were the only studies which 
constituted literature. Ireland, in this respect, was the 
school of Europe ; and not the school only to which stran- 
gers came for instruction, but the school likewise from which 
native students went forth in all directions as teachers and 
apostles. It was once the fashion to sneer at such state- 
ments, but the fashion has had its day. A deeper scholar- 
ship has silenced the ridicule of shallow scoffers, and nothing 
in the past of nations is now better ascertained than the 
antiquity of Ireland, and the intellectuality of its early 
civilization. Particularly it has been so within the sphere 
of western culture. Irish learning was from the first found 
in the colleges of the continent, as afterwards Irish states- 
manship was in its cabinets, and Irish valor in its camps. 
Beautiful ruins that abound in Ireland are mournful monu- 
ments of its former zeal in the cause of letters as well as of 
religion ; for the structures that are lovely even in their 
desolation were those that once gave shelter to priest and 
student when Ireland was, as Dr. Johnson calls it, "the 
quiet habitation of sanctity and learning." These architectu- 
ral remains show what grand and goodly dwelling-places 
Ireland reared for her men of prayer and her men of 
thought — show with what love and pomp she cherished the 
sublime ministry of the soul — show her enthusiasm for 
divine things, in noble forms of art as well as in sacred 
inspirations of soul. The barbarism which was fatal to 



186 Giles' Lectures. 

scholarship and scholars ; (ho barbarism -which desecrated 
the sanctuai'ies of devotion and intelligence ; the baibaiusm 
which gave force and •will the place of faith and reason ; the 
barbarism Avhich tiu-ned the college into a barrack, ^Yhich 
pulled down the Almightj-'s temple, and built up the robber's 
castle — none of (his was Irish ; tJiis came first from the wild 
outlaws of northern seas. The Danes began tlie havoc, 
which other ravagers and spoliators successively and ruth- 
lessly continued. The Irish, in the worst of their own con- 
flicts, reverenced the shrines of worship and of study. The 
savageism to which neither laws nor letters, human or 
divine, were sacred, was foreigii. The savageism was not 
Irish which destroyed buildings and burned books, which 
spared nothing in its fury, which swept as a devastating 
tempest over aU that the labor or the zeal of mind had 
created or ennobled. The intellect of Ireland has survived 
many persecutions, and come clear and bright out of much 
stormy dai'kness. That intellect oppression could neither 
crush nor kill ; it has a living force, which renders the spirit 
ever superior to the senses. But aU this, it may be said, 
has reference only to the mind of a select few. The mind 
of t]ie mass, it may be urged, has in the mean time con- 
tinued in contented ignorance, and given small evidence 
of capacity. The very laws, which were made by Protestant 
rulers in Ireland against the education of the Catholic peo- 
ple — laws enacted for the purpose of closing every avenue 
by which intelligence could be cultivated — do of themselves 
refute both parts of this objection. For if the people had 
been ah'eady in contented ignorance, no laws would have 
been needed to hinder them from instruction, and if the 
people had been void of natural capacity, such laws, instead 
of being the refinement of cruelty, which they were, would 
have been the most laughable of absurdities. Surely to 
forbid schools and schoolmasters under dii-est penalties 



Irish Character, Mental and Moral. 187 

to a people who had no desire for Bchools or schoolmasters, 
and no fitness for them, would have been an audacity of 
drollery which even Irish farce has never dared. Such was 
not the case. The people, even the humblest of them, had 
both the desire and the fitness for education. A few gene- 
rations ago, in Ireland, Protestant laws, as I have said, 
forbade Catholic education — confronted every endeavor 
after it with terror and penalty. If by stratagem such edu- 
cation was achieved, it was shut out from every sphere of 
activity or ambition. Now that, in the face of such threat- 
ening, and despite its execution, the Irish of all classes 
should still protect the schoolmaster — should still respect 
his oflice — should still, by every means of ingenuity, avail 
themselves of it — should stiU, for the sake of knowledge, 
brave the danger of spies, of infomiers, and the stem con- 
sequences of confiscation, imprisonment, or death, is an 
example of vigor in the life of mind which the history of 
few nations can show. 

The Cathohc Irish, in those hard times when education 
was thus forbidden them, carried their literary studies into 
the silent fields, and amidst bushes and brambles conned 
Homer, Virgil, Euclid, or the spelling-book ; and this was 
the origin of what has been called "the hedge-schooL" 
The old Irish hedge-school should be held in immortal 
honor, as the last refuge of a people's mind, and as the last 
sanctuary of persecuted intellect. The Irish who dared all 
penalties for their faith, dared no less for their understand- 
ing. They were as zealous martyrs for scholarship as for 
conscience. Even while the penal laws were still in force, 
peasants who spoke Latin could be found among the hills 
of southern Ireland ; and at all times classical studios have 
been popular among the Irish. Within the short period in 
which there has been in Ireland any comprehensive system 
of popular education, even the poorest of the people have 



188 Giles^ Lectures. 

made remarkable progress, and the time is fast hasteniag, 
when few, even of the poorest, will be liable to the odium^ 
as odium it is considered — of not knowing how to read or 
write. Yet I do not esteem mere knowledge of reading and 
writing in itself as highly as many do. When that knowl- 
edge is not carried into thoughtful and practical application, 
it often satisfies only the vanity of conceited and preten- 
tious ignorance. In any event, the mere knowledge of 
elementary reading and writing is no standard by which to 
judge in certain conditions of society the amount of a peo- 
ple's intelligence. Here is how I should estimate, until 
within the present century, the mental stock of a quick- 
minded farmer in Ireland, and his active accomplishments, 
even if he were not able to read or write. I leave out the 
proper business of his rural profession, which, if skillfully 
conducted, imphes no contemptible quantity of knowledge, 
experience, industry, acuteness, and good sense. Indepen- 
dently of all this, such a man usually spoke two languages, 
English imperfectly, it might be, but Irish in all its wealth. 
In either Irish or English, he could tell a story; in either 
he could sing a song; and to the song he could sometimes 
add a tune on the bagpipes or the fiddle. Play indeed he 
might not, but he was sure to dance, and to dance with 
every ingenuity of step ; he could dance any measure, from 
a single reel to a treble hornpipe. He was fully indoctrin- 
ated in all the science of the shillalah. He pulled it, a juicy 
sapling; he ti'immed it, set it, seasoned it, greased it, pol- 
ished it, coaxed it, petted it; it was thus disciphned, trained, 
highly educated, and became admirably fit for use ; then, as 
frequently as occasion offered, he was not the boy to leave 
it idle, or to manage it unskillfully. He knew well how to 
govern it with his fingers and thumb, to give it breath with 
his mouth, to play upon aU its stops, and to make it the 
occasion of vociferous, if not of "most eloquent music." 



Irish Character, Mental and Moral. 189 

He was acquainted with all the local traditions; could recite 
the chronicles of every family. For every marked spot he 
had note and name. He was acquainted with the legends 
and the myths of every olden ruin. He was at home in the 
romance of witches, ghosts, fairies, and giants. He was 
also well informed in the " Arabian Nights," in " GulUver's 
Ti'avels," in " Robinson Crusoe," in the " Seven Champions 
of Christendom," in the " Seven Wise Men of Greece," in 
the " Wars of Troy," and in many classics of the same sort 
too numerous to mention. He was tolerably versed in the 
history of Ireland; he was familiarly ready with its great 
names, from Partholanus to St. Patrick, from Con of the 
hundred battles to General Sarsfield, and from Ossian, sub- 
Hmest among the bards, to Carolan, the latest of them, and 
the sweetest. He was tolerably instructed in the doctrines 
of his religion, and he could cunningly defend them. He 
rather courted than avoided controvers3\ He was usually 
more than critical, and less than complimentary, on the 
characters of Henry VIII., Anne Boleyn, Archbishop Cran- 
mer, and Queen Ehzabeth. His version of the Protestant 
Reformation was not a favorable one ; and certainly his ideas 
of Luther and of Calvin were exactly the opposite of eu- 
logy. Now, taking all this together, it forms a respectable 
amount of faculty and acquisition ; and though it might not 
be singly owned, except by a very marked individual, it was 
yet collectively shared by the average of the population. 
Grant as much to the average of ancient Greeks, and the 
classical enthusiast would speak of it with abundance of 
laudation. Mr. Grote sets a very high value upon less. " If 
we analyze," he says, " the intellectual acquisition of a com.- 
nion Grecian townsman from the rude communities of Ar- 
cadia or Phokis, even up to the enlightened Athens, we shall 
find that over and above the rules of art, or capacities req- 
uisite for his daily wants, it consisted chiefly of various 



190 Giles' Lectures. 

myths couneoted \vith his gens, his city, his rehgious festi- 
vals and the mysteries in which he might have chosen to 
initiate himself, as well as Avith the works of art, and the 
more striking natural objects which he might sec around 
him — the whole set off and decorated by some knowledge 
of the epic and dramatic poets. Such," continues Mr. Grote, 
" was the intellectual and imaginative reach of an ordinary 
Greek, considered apart from the instructed few. It w^as an 
aggregate of i-eligion of social and patriotic retrospect, and 
of romantic fancy blended into one indivisible whole." 

Beading and writing, as critics now very gencrall}- admit, 
were not known to the ancient Greeks, when early poets 
chanted in their public assemblies mighty songs about gods 
and heroes. It is even maintained that these poets could 
not themselves read or write. Even in later times, when 
reading and writing became accomplishments among the 
especially educated, great multitudes, without these accom- 
plishments, had among themselves an instinctive and tra- 
ditional education. It was this mental force of nature, and 
its marvellous susceptibilit}- ai\d plasticity, which constituted 
the essentials of Grecian genius. Reading and writing be- 
came instruments for //)/x genius, but they did not give it. 
Genius it was which gave reading and Avriting to the Greeks, 
as it was genius which gave them inspired rhapsodists 
before reading or writing had ever been thought of. When 
reading and writing had become perfect, it was still their 
genius that gave the Greeks their great men, that enabled 
the Greeks to undcrf^tmni tlieir great men. It was this 
genius, and not mere reading and writing, that gave the 
Greeks the loftiest drama which nation ever had — the 
most perfect architecture and sculpture of which human 
imagination ever dreamed. It was this genius which made 
the Greeks the masters of mind and method, the conquerors 
of barbarism, the creators of art, the originators of science. 



Irish Characlcr, Menial and Moral. lUl 

and in beauty and philosophy the toacliers of the -world. 
Yet multitudes to whom this genius was native, out of 
whose intuitions it sprung, who could feel it in its noblest 
power, could still neither read nor write. Put, thou, tlie 
Christian faith of Ireland against the pagan faith of Greece, 
the sublime doctrines, the immortal liopea and fears, the 
spiritual ideas, the impressive worship of the one against 
the carnal fables, the bounded conceptions, the (lonventional 
rituals of the other ; put the tragic story of Ireland against 
the patriotic struggles of Greece. As to imagination, put 
the wild and deep passion of Ireland against the gratjcful 
and the fair poetries of (Ircece ; put tradition against tradi- 
tion, legend against legend, myth against myth ; give 
Grecian sculpture to the eye, give Irish music to the heart ; 
let the Grecian temple speak to the love of b(!auty, kit the 
(Jothic church speak to the instinct of the soul ; put, I say, 
the one against the other, then, for all that gives active life 
to mind, the Irishman, to whom I have directed attention, 
is surely not behind the Greek whom Mr. Grote describes. 
Yet the Irishman to whom I refer is but a (piick-minded 
peasant, while the Greek to whom Mr. Grote refers is a 
townsman, and of ordinary education. To those higher 
powers of Greek genius which left iuenaccable impression on 
the civilization of the world, this comparison has, of course, 
no application ; but in mere vividness, in that intellectual 
irritableness to which mental activity is a necessity, there is 
no small resemblance between the Greek mind and the Irish 
mind, and also, for the delight which mental activity in itself 
bestows, both minds appear to have been similarly consti- 
tuted. No mind, not even the Greek, has ever had a more 
disinterested love of knowledge than the Irish mind ; no 
other mind has ever had more passion for study, and with- 
out any reference to its gainful applications. In no country 
more than in Ireland has scholarship been sought for in 



192 Giles' Lectures. 

defiance of such appalling obstacles. Hunger, cold, weari- 
ness, sorrow, loneliness, sickness, have been braved for it. 
Many a hero of the mind has struggled with death itself in 
battle against the ignorance which poverty or persecution 
had enforced. In no other country has men made nobler 
eftbrts than in Ireland to obtain education for themselves 
or for their children. Many a man in Ireland who arose to 
professional eminence had the schooling which prepared 
him for it at the cost of his father's sweat, and many a loving 
sacrifice has been made in the home to meet the expenses 
of the college. I do therefore deny, and I deny it most 
strenuousl}', and with all my soul, that the Irish have ever 
been content with ignorance, or indifferent to knowledge. 

The imaginative element in the mental character of the 
Irish is that which comes now under observation. 

This element in the Irish character is diffusive. It per- 
vades the whole mind, and it pervades the whole people. 
There is in the Irish mind an idealism which, more or less, 
influences all its faculties, and which naturally disposes the 
Irish to what is intensive and poetic. Many of the faults 
and failings in Irish character may perhaps be traced to 
this peculiarity. It may have led to that want of balance 
and compactness which, not without justice, is attributed to 
Irish character — to want of directness, force, and persistency 
— to want of that sustained purpose which alone conquers 
and succeeds. This interfused idealism has hindered it from 
grasping the prosaic and the practical with sufficient firm- 
ness, or of holding to them with persistent tenacity. 

A sense of ever-pi'esent soul in nature pervades the Irish 
popular imagination. This imagination personifies objects, 
and endows them with intelligence. It goes behind the 
visible world, and, whether at noontide or at night, it dis- 
cerns another world for the mind. Could the traditions, 
the tales, the legends, the countless stories, droll and 



Irish Character, Moral and Mental. 193 

dreadful, which make the unwritten poetry of the people, 
have boon in due season collected, they would have formed 
a body of popular romance which only the "Arabian 
Ni^dits " might have surpassed. They would besides have 
had a moral truth, a spiritual depth, a sanctity and a purity 
of which Oriental genius is peculiarly deficient. Then how 
the comic, the beautiful, the pathetic, and the tragic, are 
emljodied in creatures of the Irish popular imagination, as, 
by turns, they are capricious, fantastic, melancholy. There 
is the Leprachawn, the mocking imp that delights in soli- 
tude and sunshine; the tiny shoemaker that, whenever 
seen, is busy with his hammer and his lapstone. The 
cynical and cunning cobbler knows where pots of money 
are concealed which would make everybody richer than the 
richest of the Jews. Oh, how many times, in those golden 
days of youth which are given once to the most wretched, 
and are never given twice to the most blessed, have I looked 
for that miniature Son of the Last — watched for his rod cap 
amidst the green grass of the hillside — spied ai-ound to 
catch the thumb-sized treasure-knowor, tliat I might have 
guineas to buy books to my heart's content, or wealth 
enough to go, like Aladdin, and ask for the caliph's daugh- 
ter. But I must honestly confess that, though no one ever 
looked more diligently than I did for a Lepracliawn, I never 
foiTud one. There are the fairies that love the moonlight, 
that affectionately sport around beauty, and watch over 
childhood. There is the Banshee, the lonely and fearful 
spirit-watcher of her clan, the loyal visitant who attends the 
generations of her tribe, wails over the hour of their death 
and sorrow, and who, under castle window or through 
cottage door, sings her lamentations for the long-descended. 
The imaginative element is so native to the popular Irish 
mind, that those writers of Irish fiction truest to this 
element have best revealed the heart of the people's life. 

I) 



194 Giles' Lectures. 

An Irisli peasant used once to bo recognized in a certain 
class of litoratnro onl^-^ in condescension or in ridicnlc, and 
sonic of his own native ■writers put the g-rosscst bnrlesqucs 
of him ill novels and on tlie stjigc. Lady INI organ took the 
peasant kindly into her protection, but her especial heroes 
and liei-oines were of the nobility and gentry. Miss Edge- 
worlli uas earnest and warm-hearted, and to her genius 
(\very Irishman must refer with reverence and allection. 
yiio evidently loved the people, felt with them, and often 
" caught their living manners as they rose." She had pity 
for their sufferings ; she had charity for their sins ; she 
entered into the spirit of their goodness as well as of their 
follies ; and their grief, wit, drollery, and oddity, she coxild 
happily depict. The broad comedy and the immediate 
pathos of their life are often most effectively and dramati- 
cally presented in lier writings. But that imaginative, that 
ideal element, which lies in the very soul of the people's life 
she failed to reach, and so far she failed in that genuine 
representation which 1 races outward characteristics to their 
inward sources. William Carleton, born himself into peas- 
ant life, knew it in the ciu'o of its heart ; and genius inspired 
the knowledge of expedience — a genius of power in its order, 
strong in passion, in humor, ami in pathos, in the comic and 
the tragic. The light and diirkness of rural character, in all 
their niinglings and degrees, are to be found in Carleton 's 
stories of the Irish peasantry. But whetlier in coarse mer- 
riment or deadly sorrow, in the sanctities of virtue or in the 
madness of crime, there is ever the presence of the imagina- 
tive element in Carleton's pictures of Irish character ; and 
in this Carleton is triie to fact and true to nature. With 
the grace and sweetness of her sex, added to an exquisite 
^enius, Mrs. S. C. Hall illustrates the same principle in her 
descriptions of peasant life among the Irish. Banim and 
Critlin, of astonishing grasp in tragic conception, dealing 



Irisli Character, Menial tin>. Alonif. lOf) 

raosily wiili Uio durkor TorccM of TriHli ii;i,l.iiv(\ hIiow tlin 
action of imagination in llui pM.s.sioiiH iiiid llui dcculs ol' nil 
tlicir loading cliaractci'H. I liavu lusro pnr[)().s('ly brought iiito 
viow the lit(3ratui-o for wliidi nativo and primitivo iriuli liln 
alono has snpplicd tlio inspiration and tlio material. 

In rofcronco to tiio aitintic diroction of Irisli imagiiiaJioii, 
I Inivo only tinio to Hjiocify Mnsic! and .lijl()([ii()ii(',(i, uiul 
those I soloct a.s tho most luitional and tlio niont cliarac- 
tcristic. Musio is univorKal. It is not absoiit from any 
human heart. Every country has it, and in it every country 
takes delight. But the countrioH of Htrongtli, of \v(!altli, of 
work, and of prosperity are nof, those vvliich most or best 
cultivate it. The people of sueh countries are too busy in 
building ships and cities, in founding or iiiling empires ; 
they have other oceu[)ation than to give their thoughts to 
song, or train their hands to instrunuuds. Music has in- 
deed sounds for mirth and gladness ; l)ut its inmost secrets 
are hidden in the heart of sorrow — its deepest mysteries are 
reached only by the serious and meditative si)irit. So it is 
that tho best rehgious music is deep and pathetic — so it is 
that Christianily has so profoundly inspired music, for 
Christianity, born of a tragedy, has never lost tho sense of 
its origin ; it carries always in its bosom the solemn ideas of 
death and immortality. So it is that, as tho lyi'ic utterance 
of humanity, music has most of soul when it is the voi(!e of 
memory, and of those relations to the future and tho inlinito 
which, in revealing at tho same time our greatness and our 
littlen{!ss, sadden wliile they sanctify. Music too is peculiarly 
the art of the sul.'jected and the unhappy. It is no wond(!i-, 
thorefpre, that it sliould liavci attained ho much (ixcelloice 
in Ireland. A. S(!ntimont of grief seems to breathe thrcmgh 
the whole of Irish history. The spirit of Ircslaiid is of tho 
past, and the past to Jr<(huid is a retrospect of sui'i-ovv. Irish 
music is alive with thi; spirit iA' tliis impa.ssioncd and ni(;]an- 



196 Giles' Lirtures. 

choly past — a past which has siu'li }i;itlios in it as no words 
can utter, and for >Yhioh nmsie only has expression. Irish 
music is thus the voice of nielanclioly. with variations of war 
song and prayer, of dance sounds and death sounds. It is 
the lyric sighing of sok^nn and retU>ctive musing, of tronbhHl 
alVections and of mourning nationahty — a low long litanv for 
tlio dying, without the resignation which belongs to the 
requiem for the dead. The bards whii-h reached the dei>iiest 
sources of this music, struck their harps amidst alllictions ; 
in later times they composed it as if under the shadows of 
ruins, where the weeds had grown upon the castle tower, 
where grass was rank in courtly halls, where echoes of the 
lonely wind were in the vacant spaces of dismal valley or of 
haunted cave, and where the palhd ghosts of saints and 
wju-riors seemed to listen to the strjiiu. Grief is always 
sacred ; grief invests even the most savage people with 
dignity; but when genius weds itself to grief — when genius 
breathes the historic sadness of a cultivated nation, it makes 
art as inuuortal as humanity. So it is with Irish music ; 
and herein is the secret of its depth, its tenderness, its 
beauty, and its strength. In wedding this nuisic to expres- 
sive verse, !Moore has drawn life for his own gcTiius out from 
the soul of his coiantry; and while the memory of Ireland 
shall last, the melodies of Moore will be sung. 

Ill speaking of Irish eloquence, I enter on no critical dis- 
quisition. This has been done so often and so well, that 
there is nothing more to say, and I will not, therefore, tax 
your patience with the repetition of a rather out-worn 
theme. I would merely observe : Irish eloquence, Hko Irish 
music, has much of its character from that law of human 
experience which connects intensity with adversity — to 
which we must also add the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the 
impulsive sensibility of the Irish temperament. Thence the 
h\ugnagc of the people, on most occasions of excitement, 



Insh Charudcr, Mental and Moral. l'*7 

breaks readily into cloquoiicc — eloquence al\va3'8 intense, 
and often exalted, llich in tex'rns of endearment, the IriHh 
give full and musical expression to the affections, whether in 
affliction or in happiness, with most energy, of course, in 
affliction ; and sometimes in cases of peculiar grief, their 
phraseology is burdened with all that is terrible or tender 
in the utterance of the smitten soul. But in passion dark, 
deep, and strong it is that the Irish are most powerful in 
the intensity of emotion and in the force of mind. And this 
never consists in mere sounds or in parade of sentiment. 
The Irish character is not sentimental. For Ihal it is too 
imaginative and too impassioned. Exuberant as the Irish 
are in diction, the diction which comes from their fervid 
moods is earnest with import. When they use bold words, 
the occasion justifies their use ; and when the occasion calls 
for the boldest words, the boldest never fail them. They 
do not endeavor to suppress gladness or grief. In a dogged 
silence, or to counterfeit insensibility in pretended cynicism, 
they allow feelings to fill the heart, and out from the fullness 
of the heart they speak. 

It was natural that such a people should liave orators, 
and the orators born of such a people were made greater 
by the confidence which they had of the people's admi- 
ration and sympathy. This unity of sympathy and con- 
fidence brought the orator and the audience together in the 
electric interchange of passion and of thought. The orator 
inspired the audience ; the audience insjjired the orator ; 
and both the audience and the orator arose to the con- 
sciousness of a higher nature. Yet the orator never took 
liberties with his audience. Grattan came to the Dul^liu 
hustings, to meet a Dublin crowd, in the full majesty of 
his eloquence. Curran taxed his utmost wealth of patJios, 
of imagination, of argument, and of humor, before a country 
jury. To multitudes, gathered from the cottages and farm- 



198 Giles' Lectures. 

houses of a laborious population, O'Conncll spoko the best 
spcci'hos ^Yllicll ho over uttoroJ. To rural throngs upon the 
open hillsiilo, or under the straw-roofed chapel, the artificial, 
yet impassioned Shiel delivered some of his most elaborate 
and most liery appeals. From the inner essence of Irish 
character came to birth, voice, and might the turbid power 
of Flood, the deep thinking of Plunkct, the Shakespearean 
sweep of Burke, with all the other men of llaming tongues, 
in whoso burning- hearts the lire of a generous nationality 
was kindled. If Irish genius gave nothing to the world but 
the eloquence of such men, in that alone it has given to tho 
world an immortal contribution. 

Irish moral character is my second topic, and it must bo 
rapidly treated. On this, as ou other points, I am necessa- 
rily obliged to limit my attention to the broad characteristics 
of the national masses. The conditions of a lecture on so 
largo a subject allow only reference to essentials of a peo- 
ple's life. Such essentials are to be sought mainly in tho 
aggregate maj ority . 

There is a good deal of what is spiritual in Irish char- 
acter, and there are no exorbitant tendencies to what is 
sensual. Tho Irish nature is in a great degree a religious 
nature. Taking the Irish as a mass, they are devout, believ- 
ing, patient, showing in the saddest hours, and under the 
heaviest calamities, an immovable trust in Divine provi- 
dence. Habitually, they are zealous for the doctrine of their 
Church, faithful to its ordinances, and those among them 
who are tho most earnest in their convictions, and the most 
observant of their ecclesiastical duties, are sure to have 
most of those essential virtues which all Christian creeds 
require in the Christian life. As tho great body of the Irish 
people consists of Koman Catholics, in speaking, therefore, 
on tho religion of that great body, of course I refer to the 
Roman Catholic. Independently of tho form or tho matter 



Irhh C/Kirachr, Mnihil <ind Moral. \\)\) 

of belief in ;iiiy religion, \v<i rcH[)(!c,l, ilioso wlio iullicrc, io i(, 
in Kincoril,y, dcvotoduoHH, luul iit iho cosi of Josh, Hiil'loi-iii;^'', 
and Kiicrifico. ThcKO iiro in ilioinsolv(!H niond (|iiiiliii(',H, luid 
hiivo in tlienisolvGS an indcpondoiiL iiionil viiliK^ TIk'so 
qu:iliLioH, all that is boHt in our nature, compel tiH U) iMlmirc. 
Wo may not agree with tlio rcsligioniHt, but wo give honor lo 
the man. Wo can conccivo of a man holding what we con- 
sider dangerous error; but ho may have an integrity, an 
honesty, a humanity, a heroiHiu which hin error docH not 
roach or vitiate ; while wo muHt withhold all CHteem from a 
man who profoHHOH what wo regard as sacr(!il tnilli, il' we 
have reason to think he docs so in guile, falsoly, foi- gain 
or for ambition. I can S(;e good, and acknowledge g'ood in 
men of various beliefs. If this sliould brin},' on nio disci-cdit 
from them all, I cannot help it; 1 nnist even risk the g(!n- 
eral exconinninication ; but I would ratlier be outlawcsd for 
cliarily tlian be enihroncul for intol<!i-ancn. 1 honor iJio 
Bincere devotedncss of tlie (Jatholic Irisli to tlicir I'uiLh. 1 
honor the zeal with which th(iy have always conhisscd it, 
and tlie constancy with wliicli they liave snClci'cd for it. 
Not in the cpiicit order alone of rcHgious virtues do wo lind 
the Irish devoted; ill the heroic order also of such virtu(;s 
they have shown the spiritual value of the soul. I adiniio 
all in man that shows unsellishly the triumph of the spirit- 
ual over tho sensual. I admire the Mohammedan conscicncie 
which strengthened tho Moors to quit, for its sake, their 
beautiful paradise in Si)ain, and in burning Africa to f-KUik 
for desert homes. The Hollanders are w)i a poetic race; 
rather sluggish and worldly they soem to oui- usual ap])i-e- 
hension; but as I look at thcni banded against Philip th<! 
8econd, for their c<juntry and their creed, they are a naii(m 
of demi-gods. Nor are the once persecuted Protestant Dis- 
senters of England, whipixnl, imprisoned, and d(!!ij)oi]e<l, 
les/j lofty to my thoughts. No warri(n' in l-lie h(nir of iiiost 



200 (;//<'i' lATtiiirs. 

prnisowortliy vicldw is lo my moulal vision clad in nioro 
gouuino glory ihaii (li«> fiti|)[icHl-(<{UTil Viirilan, wlumi {\\o 
Buvago Bcrvnnls ol' sa\a;;'o laws oxih)S(h1 in a pillory io (ho 
inhunum insults ol' a ctucl labblo; and though 1 liavo not 
syn»ii!illiy with his giMUM-al lypo ol chnvMctcM", luy heart us 
vi>U as my iidniir.'diou is with him in his couragoous tribu- 
lation. Si) it is with tho Fronch Huguonoi, proforring ban- 
ishment. Id hypoi'risy. So it is with the Scotch l'rt>sbytorian, 
for lov(^ io his idoa of truth juMishing among tho Umoly 
hills, (>!• struck down in Moody battle, counting nothing loss 
but. tho loss of his iid.i>grily, auil iu)thing gain but. tho glory 
of his cause. I\ly imagination carries nn* back oven beyond 
all thesi\ I\ly spirit w.'UuKm's amidst gloomy regions and in 
dreary times. With pitying brotherhood, 1 follow tho 
huntcHl and llu> persecuted to tluMr ]ilaces of conceahnent, 
(A' im[>risonment, ov i>l' death; and whatt^vc>r my opinion 
may bo of their creeds, 1 honor tho heroism of their cou- 
scienc»>. If sulVtM'ing-, then, ftn* tho sake of conscieuco can, 
in spite of ditVerene(>s, compel ri^sjiect, Irish Catholics have, 
indeed, a sacred claim to it; for sharp and long was tho 
sulVi>ring' which llu\v bor(\ Mven now, since multitude's of 
them ar(> the pt>or wiu'ktM's o{ the worKi. and Priiti-stants 
«>t'tcn the rich (Mnph>yers, adlu>renco to tlu'ir faith is not sel- 
dom a testimony to the powm* of conscienci> ovm- interest. 

Passing from tho spiritual to the »>thical and the practical 
in Irish character, I desire to be utMther ouU^gisfc nor censor, 
but, with independent judgiuind, according to my knowlodgo 
atid ability, to state tho truth. In constitution, Irish char- 
acter is sensitive, i>\citablo, with passions that readily tako 
lire ami tliat burn deei>ly. Nationally considered, this char- 
act<>r has been evolved out of an agitated historical experi- 
ence, out itf ilisordi>red i-cuturies. out of socitvl conditions 
uhich weri> alt(>ruately in the storm of ai\a.rchy ov tho still- 
uoss of exhaustion. I will not compare Ireland ^Yilh other 



Irisli Charader, Mental and Moral. '201 

countries. Such com]ian'HonH .'iro l,o no ])nrj)f)Ho. Lfit Ii-o- 
laiid l)c,!ir licr own liiirdon, mid Ir;!, oMi<!i- coimli-icH bear 
thoirH. Tlio national lil'o iu Inilaiul liaH novcr liad tinio to 
compact itself, or been in a condition to conKolidate its 
strength, Difiturbed relationH have f>'enerai(;(l llei'ee pas- 
sions and oeeasioned fierce crinieH. I'luiy have more or Ioha 
infused disorder and disease into the social constitution. 
Wrong tempers and evil d(;eds I will not cliaij^'o on circum- 
stances alone, for that would be unwise advcHiacy and im- 
moral logic. It is, however, only simple fairness to take 
circumstances into account in the judgment whi<!h wc lorm 
of Irisli character, or of any character. ]{nt nndr;)- wliat- 
ever circumstances wickedness appears, let it still be ac- 
counted wickedness, and let no amijunt of temptation save 
it from that moral condemnation which every violation of 
Divine law merits. This is what a man should feel for liim- 
self, and what, for father, mother, bretiiren, wife, (;hild, or 
country, he ought not to b(;]i(!. 

No on(! will deny that much crime has been committed in 
Ireland, or that Ii-IhIi cliaracter is capable; of ciime which 
may be dreadful and deadly. Generally, it is tli(! crime of 
passion, wild and strong, or of confused ideas of justice!, or 
of the reaction of an aroused indignation against oppics- 
sion, or of low and exceptional natures, lii'utali/ed by igno- 
rance and vice, or of disrjrdered bi'ains, rnaddcned by 
stimulant or despair. Sehlom is Irish crime mercenary, 
seldom is it solitary. Even in crime, the Irishman is social. 
Fearful and dark his crimes may bo, but rarely are they 
individually conceived, and rarely perpetrated by individual 
agency. Commonly they are the result of shared and c(j1- 
lectivo motives; in extremely few cases do they originate 
in silent and secret malice. So radically indeed is the indi- 
vidualism (jf guilt foreign to an Irishman's character, that 
whenever an Irishman's guili in concentrated into self, it is 



202 ■ Giles' Lectures. 

a guilt wliicb seems the most to put off the man and put 
on the demon. 

Making- thus all admission that severest criticism can 
demand, I may speak with freedom on some moral excel- 
lences in Irish character. Honesty I claim as a leading one. 
Amidst all the disorders of Irish society, property has usually 
been safe. Stores of luxury have been left unmolested 
amidst a starving people ; and a man loaded with money 
need not have been afraid to spend the night in a mountain- 
hut, though the peasant and his family had gone supperless 
to bed. Seeing the millions worth of wealth that humble 
Irish have constantly in trust, and that is most religiously 
preserved, I will not turn aside to answer the petty accusa- 
tions of petty minds. There are those who complain about 
the loss of a pin who themselves neglect no opportunity to 
cheat ; there are those who lay stripes on the indigent 
pilferer, but who gives smUes to the millionaire successful 
in gigantic fraud. Truth I claim also for the Irish — truth, 
I say, in its largest and most essential meaning. What is 
piety but truth in relation to God? What is fidelity to 
religious conviction but truth in a high and holy sense? 
Take, as a general case, the most miserable Irish beggar, 
ready to perish of hunger, and, was he persuaded that 
denying his faith would make his fortune, he would put 
away the bribe and die. What is honesty but truth ? and 
the Irish have at least a nation's share of the virtue. But 
I must admit that, " to be honest as this world goes, is to 
be one man picked out of ten thousand." What is domestic 
purity but truth, blessed and beautiful truth — truth of the 
heart, truth of word, truth of look, the sacramental truth of 
dearest life ? The Irish have their portion of such truth. 
Let us not desecrate the idea of truth by confining it to 
what is merely verbal, and let us not praise that as truthful 
•virtue in which there is no temptation to deceive. Why 



Irish Character, Mental and Moral. 203 

ehoiilJ the rich, the powerful, the independent lie ? What 
urgency have they to do so ? Let not such judge. Let 
those who have been tempted, tempted sorely — tempted by 
indigence, by fear, by habits of subjection — let those who 
knoiv what the struggle means, and what the victory costs, 
be the jurors to those who have been tempted, like them- 
selves, and let such pass the righteous sentence on the 
wretched ones who fall. But the Irish tell such lies, especi- 
ally the needy L-ish, and above all the servant girls. "What 
sinners and exceptions they must be in the midst of sur- 
rounding truth. How guilty they must be, with such brilliant 
examples everywhere before them — such examples of sim- 
plicity, of sincerity, of veracity, and of integrity. What severe 
conscientiousness in our parties and in their leaders. How 
scrupulous our press. How full of probity our statesmen. 
How rigorously verity rules the lips of our orators. How 
genuine is all mercantile commodity, and how abhorrent to 
falsehood is the word of seller unto buyer. How patriotic 
and disinterested all government contractors and officials. 
Of what unbending rectitude are all our moneyed corpor- 
ations. How honorable, and how, like Csesar's wife, above 
suspicion, are all their agents ; and no one of them ever 
runs away with the whole capital in his pocket. The man- 
servants and maidservants that could be capable of a lie in 
such an age of truth, are surely the most hardened of trans- 
gressors. May the Lord have mercy on their souls. Yet, 
occasionally, untruth is noticeable in their betters — at least, 
what simple people might consider untruth. Joseph Sur- 
face Goliathan, Esq., has no respect to the sanctities of his 
home ; he has no respect to the sanctities of other men's 
homes ; but he burns with a sense of indignant virtue on 
finding out that Biddy went to meet her lover when she said 
she went to see her aunt. Yet Joseph Surface Goliathan, 
Esq., thinks lies, breathes lies, eats lies, drinks lies, sleeps 



204 Giles' Lectures. 

lies, droams lies, buys lies, soils lies, pays lies, and has lies 
paid him — is himself a conglomcratod lie, will die in false- 
hood, and his ashes, after death, will be consecrated by a 
lying epitaph. For much and many, Joseph Surface Golia- 
than, Esq., is a representative character. I do not defend 
Biddy's lie ; and because Goliathan is a big liar, that is no 
reason why Biddy should be a little one. Lot the lie, big or 
little, wliite or black, bo fore ver hateful and shameful. But 
then the Irish do so blarney. For my part, I regret to 
observe that good old blarney is dying out, and giving place 
to surliness which is not more honest because it is boorish. 
Blarney, as wo call it, had its source in kindness, and its 
inspiration from those emotional and imaginative elemente 
in which native Irish character used to bo so rich. It was 
the melody of speech, and showed that Irish manners had 
a soul of sweetness in them, as well as Irish music. It has 
lingered longest among tho poor ; for as old traditions, old 
tunes, old dialects, old fashions, and shall I say — old clothes? 
— stay longest among tho poor, so do old civilities and old 
courtesies. It wore a pity that gracious speech should be 
among "the old things" which have passed away; and it is 
a great injustice to acoiiso gracious speech of insincerity be- 
cause the n\an is poor who uses it. AVh^^ should such 
speech be deemed elegance in brilliant costume, and false- 
hood in threadbare or hoinespun — compliment with a sim- 
per, and cajolery wdth a brogue ? Must the word be suited 
to tho coat ? If so, then coarse utterance must accompany 
coarse raiment, then tho garment, and not the man, must 
I'ogulate expression. But the action too should bo suited to 
the word; then the rude in dress should not only bo rude in 
phrase, but also rudo in deeds. If, however, there some- 
times are men in plain clothing who are more than 
courteous, there are also men in line clothing who are less 
than civil. The excess on one side is certainlv better than 



Irisk Character, Mental and Moral. 205 

tho deficiency oiv the oilier ; for siuxsly ifc in prcifoniljlo to 
overdo the gentleman than to csiiuiLdo llio ruilian. lil.iriKiy 
is tlicreforG an cxcolloiit thing in it.s way. If variety i,s tlio 
spice of hfe, if wit m its .salt, blarney m lin sngar. 'I'ljcsro iiro 
two B's which bring great reward to those who cunningly 
understand their seccrets — and these are Jilariusy and Jiun- 
kum ; blarney for the individual, l)unkuni for the public ; 
indeed, bunkum is merely the bigger of the B's — it is 
blarney expanded to the utmost possible compass of windy 
magniloquence. 

The Irish are said to Avant thrift. Thrift may b(3 (Uillned 
as the art of saving, and in this art the Irish in Anunit;;!,, at 
least, have achieved notable distinction. How ))ut fr(jm 
thrift are kept in motion these unbroken tides of remittan- 
ces which How into Ireland as regularly as tlu! Atlantic 
waves? How arise those goodly structures throughout tho 
country devoted to lioman Catlujlic worship and institu- 
tions? All comes from the thrift of Irish labor — labor that, 
in the mass, is of the humblest order and of the smallest 
pay. Still there is a surplus, and Ihe funds of American 
savings banks show how ample ; but am])l(j though it is, it 
amounts to little out of what the Irisli s[)are from their 
earnings. The Irish, however, do not spare sellishly; they 
do not spare to be rich, io be capitalists, to hav(! individual 
importance grounded upon wealth ; they s])ar(; through the 
force of sentiment. One sentiment is that of r(;ligioi), and 
another is that of kindred. The toiling Irishman calls no 
surplus his own till he has made contribution to his Church, 
and to the utmost ministered to the needs of his immediate 
relatives. The Irish used to be called idle, and accused of 
having no spirit of industry. The jiccusation will not stand 
in America. The lal^oring Irish in America are the severest 
of toilers. Theirs are the heat and the V)urden, theirs Ihe 
cold and the struggle, theirs the utmost of exi)OSure and 



206 Giles' Lectures. 

danger iinto dcatli. The terrible fatigues from which others 
shriuk, they choin-l'iilly euduro. They hibor and complain 
not. Life and limb ihoy constantly risk ; and though limbs 
are often lamed, and life is often lost, still they battle bravely 
on ^Yith Fate in the heroism of unpraised exertion. 

But " "Work or Die " seems to be now sounded alike in 
the ears of all. AVe are living in a new age, and in a 
troubled one. This new ago brings with it new conditions, 
new duties, and iiew trials. The men who belong to the 
age must accept its conditions, bo faithful to its duties, and 
bo equal to its trials. " Work or Die " is, I repeat, the 
watchword of the age, and he who does not heed it must 
take the consequences. And now, in this dark and troubled 
crisis, in this calamitous and awful struggle, wo have addi- 
tional calls on our energy, fortitude, and principle. "We 
shall not, I hope, be found wanting in the hardest trials 
which honor and duty may require, but bravely do and 
heroically suller whatever is given us, as soldiers or citizens, 
to do or suffer in behalf of the nation's dignit}', welfare, and 
restoration. Stern as these demands are, they are noble ; 
hard conditions, but grand discipline ; trainers of manhood, 
teiiohers of power; and they who grow by their culture be- 
come the masters of circumstances, and the makers of 
destinies. 




IRISH SOCIAL CHARACTER. 



I WISH it once for all to bo distinctly understood, that I 
speak in this lecture of Irish social character as I know it 
in my youth, long and many years ago, or as I heard of it 
from tradition ; I speak also of it in its distinctive national 
qualities, as developed among the masses of the people, or 
in such individuals as fairly represent those masses. 

The Irish nature is eminently social. This may in part 
be owing to instinct of race, and in part to the influence of 
circumstances. Ireland is a small country, and for genera- 
tions it has been thickly populated. I cannot recollect that, 
in any part of Ireland, I was ever for many minutes away 
from the sight of a human habitation. Of late years, the 
case, I understand, is difieront, but it is not of late years 
that Irish character has been formed. Always living thus 
in close companionship, it can bo seen that not only would 
the social qualities become active, but the exercise of them 
would become a necessity of life. Accordingly, Irish char- 
acter is abhorrent of seclusion, of isolation, and of s(jlitude. 
It opens, expands, and grows in the communion and crowd 
of numbers ; it droops, desponds, and withers in loneliness, 
or amidst a few. In good or evil, in gaycty or grief, in 
kindness or in wrath, the Irishman longs for fellowship. In 
the hour of injury, ho calls for condolers in his wrong; in 
the hour of success, he calls for congratulators on his tri- 
unipli. In adversity ho yearns for sympathy; in prosperity 



208 Giles' Lectures. 

he draws together sharers of his plenty. In marriage he 
cannot dispense with the ^Yeddiug gathering; and ho would 
be grieved to anticipate other than a crowd at his funeral. 
Among his fellows, the Irishman must live; among them 
also he woxild die. Living or dying, his heart answers to 
that divine announcement, " It is not good for man to be 
alone." 

In speaking of Ii-ish social character, I will, first, trace it 
in its emotions; and, secondly, in its activities. 

The first position, therefore, is the social character of tho 
Irish in its emotions. 

I may distinguish tho love of kindred as one of tho most 
powerful among these emotions. This with the Irish is 
tender, strong, far-reaching. No one that knows Irish char- 
acter or Irish life has failed to observe in both the energy 
of the home aliections. Warm and refined among the rich, 
they almost deepen into passion among the poor. In the 
barest cabin, no suffering, no atHiction, no struggle for exist- 
ence ever hardens, enfeebles, or extinguishes tho instinc- 
tive inspiration of domestic attachment. In circumstances 
wherein it might seem that humanity itself would die, these 
attachments in the Irish nature preserve their vigor ; ,for 
often, when the faith and hope of earth are lost in miser}', 
and clouds are so thick upon the ways of Providence that 
the spirit is almost ready to perish in despair, love in the 
father's and mother's heart is yet a hght fi-om heaven that 
brightens affection with divine trust and with human sanc- 
tity. Earely have Irish fathers and mothers been wantuig 
in that love. Much and often it has been their need. Chil- 
dren never give back love equal to the measure of it which 
they receive; but compared with other nations, Irish chil- 
dren are not those that give back the least. And among 
the Irish how constant and how enduring is kindred love. 
The Irish parent claims by affection, as the Eoman parent 



Irish Social Character. 209 

claimed by law, a perpetual ownership in Lis child; and the 
Irish child willingly allows the claim, which the Eoman 
child soon learned to evade. An emigrant in i\.nierica who 
is or might be himself a grandfather, will bow to the de- 
mands of his father in Ireland ; and exacting, even unrea- 
sonable, as these parental demands often are, children 
thousands of miles away as obediently regard them as they 
did the commands which ruled their infancy. Such affec- 
tions are not in the Irish mere animal instincts ; they have 
much in them of spiritual as well as of social sentiment. 
The i^arent is jealous of his home with a goodly jealousy; 
and the peasant and the peer alike share this feeling. The 
man who digs a rood is as sensitive to the purity of his 
cabin as the man who owns a county is to that of his palace; 
he is no less zealous to guard it ; and insult or wrong to it 
he is quite as ready to avenge. But yet I cannot say that 
everything is best in every Irish home. I know that much 
in many a poor Irish home is not there for its good, as 
indeed there is in many other homes, both poor and rich ; 
and much there could sometimes be changed for the better. 
Wisdom and order are not always there in the measure of 
affection ; and affection itself is not always sure against 
passion. 

Even married love, which should be as the sacredness of 
God, or the weakness of woman, which should be to man as 
the holiness of heaven, does not always protect the wife 
from the violence of the husband ; and when early and 
native feelings have died away in distant lands, and deprav- 
ity has killed all generous impulse in the heart, and burning 
drink has put the flame of madness in the brain, it does 
sometimes come to pass — hard it is to say — that the Irish 
wife finds her murderer in the Irish husband. Such terrific 
facts occur. I add nothing to their simple statement, for 
comment they do not need ; exceptional they must be with 



lilO Giles' Lectures. 

any people; and tliey do not iu^peach, therefore, "whnt I have 
to say ou the better nature of the Irish. Their love to kin- 
dred is, as I have asserted, tender, strong, constant, and 
far-reaching — far-reaehing certainly, for he niust indeed be 
a subtle and learned genealogist who eo\ild detino the point 
of I'elationship at which the claim of an Irish coiisiu disap- 
petu's, the point at which the claim would be denied. From 
the immediate claims of kindred. Irisli alVeetiou never 
loosens itself. This to the Irish is as continuous as exist- 
ence. It endures undismayed and undiminished in every 
fortune. Whatever else they may be, the Irish are loyal to 
those whom they left at home. The images of those far off 
come into their nightly dreams, and into their daily fancies. 
In the crowds of Enghmd, in the wilds of America, in toil 
and exile through the world, thoughts of kindr-ed ai'ise at 
the turn of every recollection. Then the moistened eye jxnd 
the silent prayer bespeak affection, sublimed by fjiith. The 
hard-bought earnings ai'e hoarded by pious thrift, and are 
wafted with unselfish love to those to whom " the irntram- 
meled heart ever fondly turns." Generous and holy in the 
divine strength of human nature is this affection to kindred. 
" Lovely it is, and of good report." I have not spoken on 
the devotedness of Irish woman. To the honor of woman, 
it must be said that her goodness is less the result of cir- 
cumstances than that of man — less dependent on culture 
or on race. Kind and generous jx^eetion is more the quality 
of her sex than the distinction of her nation. Other charms 
she may want or lose, but this is hers everywhere and for 
ever. Her face may bo dark ou the plains of Africa, her 
pei'son may be worn in an Irish cottage, " the lovehness 
which made men mad " will pass away with yeai-s, but those 
blessed charities which glorify the soul can be erased by no 
blackening sun, can be extinguished by no privation, ctxn 
be exhausted by no age ; they are as enduring as they are 



Irisk Social (Jfuirwter. 211 

fair. I allude to woman in Ireland because of the trials 
which there encompafined and exulted her. Tlie fidelity of 
woman's nature has its noblest manifestations in adversity; 
and of this training it had in Ireland a long martyrdom. 
In blood and struggle, in sickness and hunger, in every 
calamity which that country of successive woes has been 
heir to, woman has borne a hard share of the burden. 
Pure in her home, constant in her toil, uncomplaining 
among many wants, as wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, 
in every relation, in every sphere, true to all her godly in- 
stincts, she has ever been a guardian and a ministering 
spirit. Strong in meekness, in charitj', in patience, she has 
been a support to the feeVjle, a comfoii to the weary -hearted, 
and against the unruly and the evil-tempered more than 
a conqueror. 

Love of country in the Irish is not less than love of 
kindred. The feeling of country has to the Irish, as it has 
scarcely to any other i)eople, the strength of an afifection. 
It seems compounded of many loves — of the domestic love, 
which is bom in home, and of which home itself is bom, of 
the passionate love, which enraptures the heart of youth and 
of maiden, and of the transcendent love, with which the reli- 
gious sentiment, and every sacred, every unselfish inspiration 
sanctifies the souL Like every deep and genuine affection, 
it is not clamorous or arrogant, and does not readily expose 
itself. To no people is praise of their country more dear 
than it is to the Irish ; but it Ls only dear to them as it 
comes from the heart, and their own instincts tell them 
when it is the heart that speaks. No people love to talk of 
their country more than the Irish ; but they will not con- 
fidingly do so with strangers ; they will only do so when 
they are sure of sympathy, and that is hardly sure to them 
Imt from each other. They will not s-ubmit to the risk of 
mockery or of indifference that which Ls to them so cher- 



-I'J GiUs' lActuns. 

ished and so pure. The uneducated espooially. doubting 
tlieir ability of lauguago to do justioo to tlioir fooliug-. avo 
careful that the beloved and ideal ishmd shjUl not sutVer 
from their inluniity. This ideal lives ever in tlie Irish mind; 
it is steeped iu the endearment of the heart, and shines in 
the lij^ht of the Irisli inuvgination. Wherever the Irish go, 
they bear this \vithiu tliem ; and sometimes it is that alone 
Avhieh hinders exile from being a hapless Avilderness. The 
undying love which Ireland holds iu Irish memory seems to 
be strangely dillerent from what cireumstanees might sug- 
gest, did we not know the strength of the disinterested 
affections, juid that love has never its motive iu mere protit 
or mere pleasui'e. From no country do so many of its 
inhabitants emigrate as from Irehxnd, and emigrate with no 
expectation to return. The Swiss who leaves his country to 
fight in some foreign service, has at least the illusion that he 
may come back with money and renown. The Scotsman 
usually calculates that when he has made his fortune in 
some Bx'itish colony, he will, in the evening of his life, spend 
it comfortably at home. Usually the Irishman quits his 
country with no hope that it shall again give hiui a IocjU 
habitation or a name ; bxit so far as he is loyjxlly Irish, tliat 
country is dear to him iu every fortune ; he never scorns, 
and he never forgets it. He may be unworthy, and disgrace 
it ; ho never will be unnatural, and defsuue it^ Not to be 
condemned, but generously to be praised, is that tendency 
in the Irishman to remember endearingly the laud which the 
sense of kindrcvi has hallowed. In that land his fathers 
rest ; its grass is green, it may be, on his mother's grave. 
Shall he forget the land which the ashes of his parents con- 
secrate, when both are at peace from their labors and their 
sorrows? "When he does, let his word have no value, let his 
fi-iendship have no honor, let his presence have no homage ; 
let him be the scorn of his own country, and let no other 
coiuitry trust him. 



Irish Social ChiradP-r. 213 

As the Irifih disposition is quick to do kindness, it is 
quick equally to fed kindness. Gratitude in therefore a 
charaetcristic feeling of the Iri«h nature. It in as strong as 
it is sensitive, as permanent as it is fervid. Even a trifle is 
often gieatly esteemed and long rememberefL Ordinary 
goodness, even simple justice to a ser\'ant, dependent, or 
tenant, has not unfrequently been repaid with the devotion 
of a life, or even with the sa^.-rificc of Hfe itself. Domestic 
history in Ireland is full of such instances. In that history a 
Caleb Balderstone would be no singular or imaginary char- 
acter. Characters as droll, as faithful, as quick to invent for 
the honor of the family, ready also to suffer or to die for it, 
the domestic history of Ireland has had. in plenty, and of 
both sexes — a history rich in many a subUme tradition of 
humble heroism. It is not in the domestic sphere alone, or 
in merely personal relations, that the Irish are of ardent 
gratitude. They are as much so in national concerns. In 
truth, for those whom they regard as benefactors, private or 
public, they are prepared to undergo any toil, to h»ear any 
suffering, and to feel all that the most loyal affection can 
inspire. Catholics as the people in the mass are, religion 
has not hindered them from giving love and honor to such 
Protestants as evinced earnest sympathy in their affairs. 
"When Bedell, during the dismal insurrection of 1041, was 
pri.soner among the insurgents, they behaved to him with 
all tenderness ; allowed him fall Uberty of worship. When 
he die^l, he was buried in consecrated ground, a^^cording to 
the ritual of hiB own Church, and with the attendance of its 
minister. Now Bedell was not only a Protestant bishop, 
but a zealous Protestant proselj-tizer. Yet so profound was 
the faith in Bedell's personal goodness, that in murderous 
and gloomy times he not only enjoyed security, but was to 
the last honored and beloved- Popular enthusiasm made 
the Protestant Dean Swift a demi-god ; and generations 



214 Giles' Lectures. 

after his body had been dust, his name was cherished in the 
popular memory with impassioned admiration. Currau, 
who, of aU forensic orators, blended most musically together 
the Irish heart and the Irish imagination, was a Protestant ; 
but to that heart, to that imagination, he was, and will ever 
be, of aU such orators, the brightest and the dearest. Gi'at- 
tau was a Protestant, and he was to the Irish a leader and 
a hero. O'Connell was indeed a Catholic, and though this 
was, I admit, in his favor, it was not this alone which made 
him the mighty agitator that he was, and the national tri- 
bune of the people. 

In whatever character you find the sentiment of gratitude, 
you will be sure to find that of reverence ; for both senti- 
ments impl}' the same moral and sympathetic susceptibihty 
of nature. Gratitude is heart active in memoiy ; reverence 
is heart active in faith and in imagination. Reverence is a3 
noticeable in the social character of the Irish as it is in their 
religious character. Indeed, the rehgious elemeait is trace- 
able in many of their social forms. Most of the popular 
salutations include a prayer or a blessing. It must not be 
said that these are mere words, without soul or meaning. 
However frequently repeated, they are never void of living 
import. It is in the spirit of reverence that the Irish are 
loyal to tradition and the past. Hence their homage to 
persons in whom tradition and the past are represented ; 
as, for one instance out of many, to the members of old 
families. It was not wealth or prosperity that used to move 
the feelings of the Irish, but those intangible associations 
which, though nothing to the senses, are real to the mind. 
There is something of the "mystical" native to Irish feeling; 
and this gives worth to what is spiritual and remote, above 
what is matei'ial and at hand. The merely monej^ed man, 
proud and powerful in his wealth, drives out from his new 
mansion in his new coach, attended by servants blazing in 



Irish Social Character. 215 

new liveries ; but to the Irisli fancy there is no pomp in this 
glare, and no charm in this splendor. Some poor gentle- 
man walks out from a dilapidated old rookery, dressed in 
rusty black, you know by instinct that no bank in Christen- 
dom, much less in Hebrewdom, would advance a pin on his 
autograph ; yet there is dignity in his manner which passes 
the shoAV of dress, and an air of serene self-respect which 
not all the funds of all the Rothschilds could bestow. He is 
poor, but he knows that his poverty is respected. Nay, in 
the kindly tribute which he receives from the people as ho 
moves among them, of v/illing deference, his rank is more 
than recognized. Who may such a man be ? He is perhaps 
the successor of some anciently far-off noted O' or Mac — the 
last, it may be, of some venerable name. "WHiile he lives, 
men will, as he passes, bare the head, and women will bend 
the knee ; and when he dies, a procession miles in length 
will accompany his body to the grave. 

I now enter on the second division of this lecture, and 
speak on Irish social character in some of its activities. 

The activity of the social sentiment we observe among the 
Irish pecuharly in their hospitality. Hardly is there an 
occasion among them which deeply moves the heart that is 
not celebrated with a gathering of guests. Thus it is at 
weddings, at baptism, and once it used so to be at burial. 
So it is if the member of a family is about to leave it, with 
the prospect of long or final separation ; so it is on the 
return or visit of such as had been formerly inmates of the 
household. Not only is the friend of by-gone years received 
with collective welcome, but let him give his name, his 
word, his sign to the merest stranger, that stranger will, in 
like manner, be received. The Irish delight to give to 
entertainment the gladness of a feast. A cordial joy of 
soul flows into mood and manner, and all they say and do 
has a festive spirit. Whenever the Irishman calls his 



210 Giles' Lectures. 

fricuils! and neighbors together in order to have a pleasant 
time, all his nature seems to say, " Kejoioo with me." He is 
every inoh a host, and every iueh a generous and a merry 
one. It is not merely tliat he does his best, and gives his 
best, but he is happy in the doing and the giving. He is 
not only happy in himself, he communicates also his happi- 
ness to others. His guests share in his expansiveness, and 
spontaneously enter into his glorious freedom of jubilation. 
Herein is a gracious charm, which can add sweetness to the 
humblest fare ; without which, the most costly luxury is 
tasteless and unseasoned. I have sat at rich men's feasts, 
where good digestion did not wait on appetite. Coldness 
dulled both appetite and digestion ; and much would I have 
preferred mirthful humor over a laughing potato, to gorman- 
dizing grimness which satiated but did not satisfy, and 
guzzling solemnity that inebriated but did not cheer. " The 
hospitality of other countries," says Curran, " is a matter of 
necessity or convention — in savage nations, of the tirst, in 
poUshed, of the latter ; but the hospitality of an Irishman is 
not the running-accoiint of posted and ledgered courtesies, 
as in other coiiutries ; it springs, like all his qualities, his 
faults, his virtues, directly from his heart. The heart of an 
Irishman is by nature bold, and he contides ; it is tender, 
and he loves ; it is generous, and he gives ; it is social, and 
ho is hospitable." A genial temper animates hospitahty, I 
think, in all grades of Irish life. And this is another in- 
stance in which the peasant and the peer are kindred in their 
nationalit}-. But the peasant once in Ireland exercised a 
peculiar and sacred order of hospitality, strange to the 
nobility and to the wealthy. Such hospitality is mentioned 
in the Gospel — hospitality w^hich reckons among its guests 
the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind, and which has 
its recompense in heaven. These classes in Irehuid had 
not merely a share of tlie humble man's feast ; they had also 



Irvih Social Character. 217 

their pittance out of his Bcarcity. Daily he divided with 
8omo of them his food, and nightly ho shared with some of 
them his roof. None more than the humble Irish seemed 
to keep constantly in mind that Christ was supplicant in 
each person of the destitute ; and v/ell did their treatment 
of the destitute anticipate that last address — " I was an- 
hungered, and ye gave me meat ; I was thirsty, and ye gave 
me drink ; I was a stranger, and ye took mo in ; naked, and 
ye clothed me ; I was sick, and ye visited me ; I was in 
prison, and ye came unto me." So it used to be in Ireland. 
I cannot speak of the present ; I speak only from my own 
observation; and so speaking, I can speak only of the past. 
But it Vjelongs, I believe, essentially to the Irish character 
to be to want, or suffering extremely, merciful and tender. 
This is not by mere training or habit. Irish character is 
kindly and pitiful Vjy nature. Its compassion is not local, but 
human. It makes no question of creed or country. It has 
no hesitation because of unfamiUar hue on the stranger's 
face, or of foreign accent on his tongue. So far as look or 
language speaks a fellow-creature's want, the Irish heart is 
quick to understand the speech, and the Irish hand, if 
means it has, is prompt to relieve the want. 

Again : The transition is direct from the activity of senti- 
ment to tSe activity of passion ; and this, as a manifestation 
of Irish social character, leads me to sjjeak of internal divi- 
sions and antagonisms in the social life of Ireland. To enu- 
merate the injuries which these have done to the country, to 
describe the misfortunes and the miseries which they have 
inflicted on the people, to tell of the discredit which they 
have cast upon the national character, would be to recite the 
darkest chapter in the history of Ireland ; but the chapter 
would be long as well as gloomy; and here some passing 
words are all that our space will allow ; they are all, how- 
ever, that our occasion needs. 

10 



218 Giles^ Lectures. 

In early times, the Irish had been for ages divided among 
themselves; and when, at length, there came assailants 
from without, want of union was want of strength. Origin- 
ally broken up into small princedoms and chieftancies, they 
maintained from generation to generation the strifes which 
thus originated. The modern factions and the bloody 
fightings which grew out of them were constantly changing 
their names ; but just in the degree that the cause was 
mythical or unknown, the hatred was fierce and real. But 
fighting, when not seriously envenomed, has, with the Irish, 
its comic as well as its tragic aspect ; and aristocratic fight- 
ing has it as well as vulgar fighting. In proof of this, one 
has only to read Sir Jonah Barrington's chapter on 
"Di^elling." These heroes of the pistol here chronicled 
were as cool with reference to their own lives, as they 
were indifferent to the lives of others. A hero with ex- 
treraely slender legs had one of them broken by the ball of 
his antagonist ; he held up the shivered limb, declared that 
he would never fight another challenge with such an oppo- 
nent; "because," said he, "the man who could hit thai, could 
hit anything." A person in one of Carleton's stories says of 
his father and himself: "It plazed Providence to bring us 
through many hairbreadth escapes with our craniums un- 
cracked ; and when we consider that he, on taking a retro- 
gradation of his past life, can indulge in the pleasing 
recollection of having broken two skulls, and myself one, 
without either of us getting a fracture in return, I think we 
have both reason to be thankful." The makers and ad- 
ministrators of the law were as given to fighting as the 
people. Legislators fought, judges fought, sheriffs fought, 
barristers fought, magistrates fought, and from such the 
people had not only example, but • direct encouragement. 
I will give you an instance from the traditions of a locality 
with which I was once familiar. Colonel Lane was a man 



Irish Social Character. 219 

of rank, and one of liis majesty's justices of the peace for 
the County of Tipperary. Ujoon a certain line morning-, 
Larry O'Louglilin, bandaged about the head, called on his 
honor, and demanded a Avarrant against Timothy Tierney, 
to the illegal use of whose blackthorn kippeen Larry 
charged the fractures on the palace of his brain. " Larry, 
ma-bouchal," said his honor, "I didn't expect this of you. 
I'm ashamed of you, Larry. You are both neighbors' 
chilther. The dacent fathers to both of you are my tin- 
nants, and honester men there are not in the whole barony 
of Slievarda. Upon my conscience, I'd think it an etarnal 
dishonor to give a warrant against either of you, or to see 
you in the dirty contintions of a court of justice. But I'll 
tell you what I'll do for you. I've as purty a coach-house 
as you'll find in the county. I'll send word to Tim to meet 
you there, say this day week. Give the lawyers to bother- 
ation. Fight it out as respectable boys ought to do. My 
huntsman, Dan Cregan, and myself will see fair-play. 
Shake hands, then, in pace and quietness, and be good 
fellows to the end of your lives." The Irish are not less 
given to intellectual contention. No legislature in the world 
has ever exhibited such brilliant gladiatorship as the Irish 
Parliament. What masters of invective its members were ! 
Did the Billingsgate of genius ever surpass Grattan's attacks 
on Flood and Corry ? Listen to what he said at the hust- 
ings to an opponent who attempted to impeach his vote 
in electing a representative for Dublin. Was ever more 
abuse put into fewer words? "Mr. Sheriff," said he, "when 
I observe the quarter whence the objection comes, I am not 
surprised at its being made. It proceeds from the hired 
traducer of his country, the excommunicated of his fellow- 
citizens, the regal rebel, the unpunished ruflian, the bigoted 
agitator — in the city a firebrand, in the court a liar, in the 
streets a bully, and in the field a coward; and so obnoxious 



220 Giles' Lectures. 

is liG to the very party ho wishes to espouse, that he is only 
suppoa'table by doing those dirty acts which the less vile 
refuse to execute." 

The Irish temper goes easily into argument, but it does 
not so easily restrain itself within the bounds of logic. 
This tendency and its defect, Carleton observes with acute 
perception, and puts it into truthful and humorous illustra- 
tion. I take a case in dispute between two hedge-school- 
masters in the administration of a Ribbonman's oath. "I'll 
read yez that part of the oath,'' says one, " which binds us 
all," etc. " I condimn thai," observed the otlier master ; " I 
condimn it as being too latitudiuarian in the principle, and 
containing a paradogma ; besides, 'tis bad grammar." 
"You're rather airly in the morning wid your bad gram- 
mar," replied the other; "I'll grant the paradogma, but 
I'll stand up for the grammar of it." " Faith if you rise to 
stand up for that," replied his friend, " and doesn't choose 
to sit down till you prove it to be good grammar, you'll be 
a stiuiding joke all your life." " I believe it's pretty conspic- 
uoiTB in the parish that I have often, in our disputations 
about grammar, left you without a leg to stand upon at all," 
replied the other. "I would be glad to know," this other 
inquired, "by what beautiful invention a man could con- 
trive to strike another in his absence ?" " Have you good 
grammar for that ?" " And did you never hear of detrac- 
tion ?" replied his opponent, " Does that confound you ? 
Where's your logic and grammar to meet proper ratiocina- 
tion like what I'm displaying ?" " Faith," replied the other, 
"you may have had logic and grammar, but I'll take my 
oath it must have been in your younger years, for both have 
been absent ever since I knew you. They didn't like, you 
see, to be keeping bad company." " Why, you poor cratur," 
said his antagonist, " if I let myself out, I could make a hare 
of you." "And an ass of yourself," retorted the other. 



Iriali, Soci(U Clutractcr. 221 

"Hut, you poor Jiini!U(':H-li(\'ul('(l ciiMiJ^'aloi-," bnuvhul iJm 
opponent, " suro you iiovor liiui iiioro nor u thiniblcifiil of 
BCUKO on any Hubjcct." " Ftiitli, jind tlio tliiiiil)l() tliut nicnK- 
urcd yoiu'S wuh a lailor'.s ond, widouL u botlom to it, uiid 
good ni(!!isuro you got, you niiHL'nil)I() llagdllal-or." 

The IriHlmmn's readiiuiKS for a iight, niciitally or bodily, 
or liis joyfulness in citluir, eannot bo doubt(Ml. Miidi on 
this has been naid in satire, and sung in song. Yet not 
alono in sport must we speak of Irish eourago. It is noted 
in deeds subhir.oly bravo — in deeds which give men the 
majesty of gods. In stern trial, such courage lias been 
equal to those supreme hours which try the souls of hero(!,4 
— on Held or sea, in camp or fortress, in every rank from 
the leader crowned with glory to the soldier or tlio Bailor 
without a name. 

]jut Carleton is not b(!Kt known in his ])roader ])ictureH 
of Irish life. He is still a greater master of its subtlety and 
its pathos. I agree with a writer in the Dublin Univ(a-Hity 
Magazine, that " l)road liunior is not the charactteristic of 
our people." 'Jliey hav(), indeed, broad liiiinor, b(!(^iuiKe 
they have all sorts of humor; but tlie humor tlie mo.st ])(!c,u- 
liarly their own is keen, (piiet, sarcastic, suggestive— in which 
the word has always meaning more than meets the (Mir. 

Ere I quit tliis to[)ic, I would further devote a few words 
to the relation that, in my time, used to exist between Catli- 
olics and Protestants in Ireland. "Where party did not 
interfere, it was charitable and kindly. Among the jxioplo 
in general, where an evil spirit was not excited, the relation 
was friendly, and often it was even affectionate. I have 
known the most intimate cordialities to exist between (Cath- 
olics and Protcistants in Ireland ; and doubts of one as to 
the ultimate salvation of the other have often sccjned to 
me to mingle, in a strange sort of manner, the mirthful with 
the serious. "I wonder," says Raffcrty to Regan, "that 



222 Giles' Udnres, 

Catholics here in this Ireland of ours are so poorly off, and 
that so luauj' of us true believers go to the bad ?" " "Well," 
says Regan, " if you don't know the reason, it's small blame 
to you. Nature, you see, didn't give you the gumption. I'll 
excogitate it for you, you spalpeen. Being mimbers of the 
thrue docthrine, you obsarve, we're persecuted, like Lazarus 
and Melchisedek. The ould boy is always a timptin' of us, 
and he niver laves us aisy; but as for thim Pi'otestants, you 
see, they're well-behaved, becase the ould boy lets them 
alone ; and he lets them alone becase he's always sure of 
them." There was, however, one Protestant whom Kafferty 
did not like to consider as within the power of the ancient 
sinner, "llegan, asthore," said Rafferty, "do you think 
that the ould dark vagabone can ever catch a howld of the 
dacent man Jack Hayden?" "Jack Hayden, forsooth! 
He's had howld of better men, and I don't see what should 
make a difi'er for Jack Hayden." "I'm sorry for him," said 
Rafferty; "a better neighbor than Jack Hayden, man niver 
smoked out of tlie same pipe with. He was always ready 
in a fight to help a friend with his stick, and on the rint-day 
he was quite as ready to help him with his money. Ah, 
shawn agrah ! what shall I do, if I haven't you near me in 
the next world ? for a good fellow you were to me in this. 
But I have comfort for yoii, shawn, my brother. "When all 
the clothing and blankets which you gave every winter to 
the poor will be wet and wrapped about your sowl, the niver 
a blast of the bad fire can come near you, though Satan 
and all his sarvints were bursting their cheeks in blowing 
of it." 

I come now to my closing topic, and that is the activity of 
the social imagination among the Irish in wit and humor. 

A nation is entitled to the credit of wit when it has pro- 
duced a great many individuals eminent for wit ; a nation 
is entitled to the credit of wit when the spirit of wit enters 



Irish Social Character. 223 

into common life, and into ordinary intercourse. In both 
those respects the Irish are, I tliiuk, entitled to the credit of 
wit. But how is this to be illustrated? Shall it bo from 
the wit of eminent individuals ? 

Among- the individuals whom the Irish celebrate most for 
their wit were Swift, Sheridan, and Curran. The wit of 
Swift was fierce and sarcastic. Inflamed by political pas- 
sion, it became terrible invective, as when he said of Lord 
Wharton, " He is without the sense of shame or glory, as 
some men are without the sense of smelling, and therefore a 
good name is no more to him than precious ointment would 
be to these." The wit of Sheridan sparkles through his 
dramas, and sparkles so constantly and so brilliantly as to 
become almost an excess of light. In society his wit was 
sportive, and was usually in spirit or in fact a practical 
joke. The wit of Curran, like his eloquence, was ideal. As 
his eloquence was the ideal of fancy, intellect, and passion, 
his wit was the ideal of intellect, fancy, and oddity. I quote 
a characteristic saying ascribed to him. A companion walk- 
ing with him in Hyde Park, London, observing an Irish 
acquaintance of theirs at some distance, with his tongue out, 
said to Curran, " Why, think you, does that fellow so keep 
his tongue out?" "I suppose," answered Curran, "that he 
is trying to catch the English accent." Now the wit of 
these men has become literary, and may be read in books, 
or it has become traditional in famous sayings. The marked 
passages in books which might be quoted are hackneyed ; 
so are the sayings ; both the passages and sayings are over- 
rated and worn out. Social wit, especially, is peculiarly 
difficult to illustrate. So much depends upon utterance, 
upon circumstances, upon the grouping of persons, upon 
contrasts of character, which no description can impart, that 
often the very endeavor to exemplify social wit destroys it. 
Social wit is a subtle essence, which you cannot condense ; 



224 Giles' Lectures. 

jui otbcrial spirit, wliicli you can neither localize nor fix. 
Sir Jonah Barringtou lived in Ireland in the most witty 
period ; yet, among the characters whom he celebrates, the 
most amusing is Sir Boyle Roche, and he celebrates him 
only for his blunders. Ho was a man, however, of brilhant 
blunders. His blunders were good, and his correction of 
them was still better. On such occasions he was doubly 
witty. Ho was witty in the original mistake ; he was still 
nu)ro witty in the subsequent amendment ; and ho was siire, 
by an increase of absurdity, to fix attention on the point 
which most deserved it. "Wo are all now familiar with his 
famous address to the House of Commons. "Are we to 
beggar ourselves for fear of vexing posterity ? Now, I would 
ask honorable gentlemen, and this still more honorable 
House, why we should put ourselves out of our way to do 
anytlung for posterity, for what has posterity done for us?" 
Explaining this, ho said, "By posterity, I do not at all mean 
our ancestors, but those who are to come immediately after 
them." " Mr. Speaker," said he on another occasion, "if 
those GalUcan villains should invade us, Sir, 'tis on (hat very 
table, may bo, these honorable members might see their own 
destinies lying in heaps atop of one another. Here perhaps. 
Sir, the murderous ruffians would break in, cut us to mince- 
meat, and throw our bleeding heads upon that table to stare 
us in the face." Arguing once for the suspension of the 
Habeas Corpus, he observed, "It would surely be better, 
Mr. Speaker, to give up not only a part, but, if necessary, 
even the ichole of our Constitution, to preserve the remain- 
der." But there was a good deal of wdse bravery in his 
blunder when ho said, " The best way to avoid danger, is to 
meet it plump." That was a good thing which Barrington 
said to Lord Norbury — " He has a hand for everybody, and 
a heart for nobody." Norbury himself would have been a 
wit, had ho happened to have had a heart. Terribly appal- 



Irisk Social Character. 225 

lln;^ it was for Norl)nry to say, wlion pasmn^ Rontonco of 
death on a man for stealing a wateh. " My <^nod fcsUow, you 
made a grasp at 2\me, but, egad, you caught Eternity." The 
reputation of O'Connell as a wit is lost in his greater oJio as 
a tribuue. That was a bitter saying of his against the Lon- 
don Times. " The Times," ho observed " lies like a mis- 
placed mile-stouo, which can never l)y any possiljility t(!ll the 
truth." A priest having remarked to him that some traitors 
to the people were poor bargains to the Govennnent. " My 
dear friend,'' ho replied, " you have no idea what carrion 
finds a ready sale in the market of corruption." Tho wit of 
O'Connell is in strong contrast to that of Curran — tho con- 
trast of the real to the ideal, of tho practical to tho imagina- 
tive, of prose to poetry, and of passion to fancy. In Ciirran's 
wit there is over insinuated imagery; in O'Connell's lace- 
rating invective. 

The sense of tho ludicrous is often excited in Irish life l)y 
a certain unconscious oddity. I remember once in Dublin 
laughing heartily at a caricature which hit this point very 
happily. It represented a i)oor fellow, all in rags, under 
pelting rain, and a tattered uml)rella over his head, while ho 
is at the same time saying to himself, " It's devilish lucky I 
thought of my umbrella." A touch of tho tragic was added 
to this, when Baron Power, of tho Exche({uer, went to 
drown himself, and the weather being wet, ho too carried 
an umbrella. There is a strange incongruity in the idea of 
a man about to close his days in water guarding against a 
shower. The unconscious oddity of Judge Henn, in his 
ignorance of the law, has, however, nothing Imt tho ludi- 
crous. " How, gentlemen," said Judge Henn to a i)air of 
disputatious lawyers, "can I settle it between you? You, 
Sir, say the law is one way, and you, Sir, on the otlier side, 
as unequivocally affirm that it is tho other way. I wish to 
God, Billy Harris (the clerk of the court), I know what tho 



226 CHles' Lectures. 

law really is." " My Lord," replied Billy Harris, if I pos- 
sessed that knowledge, I protest to God, I would tell your 
Lordship with a great deal of pleasure." The faculty of 
medicine is sometimes at fault in this humorous vraj, as well 
as that of law. A doctor pressed the judge to order him 
his expenses. "On what plea," said the judge, "do you 
claim your expenses ?" " On the plea of my personal loss 
and inconvenience," replied the doctor. "I have been kept 
away from my patients these five days, and if I am kept 
much longer, how do I know but they'll get well?" But 
that peculiar form of mental confusion called " a bull," Mr. 
Edgeworth, in his famous " Essay," shows is not confined to 
Ireland, and that to the most striking instances of such 
mental blunders Ireland has no undivided claim. If the 
most complete intellectual bull was made by an Irishman, 
Sir Richard Steele, the most complete jjractical one was 
made by an Englishman, Sir Isaac Newton. When Sir 
Richard Steele was asked how it happened that his country- 
men made so many bulls, he replied, "It is the effect of 
climate, Sir. If an Englishman were born in Ireland, he 
would make as many." But Sir Isaac Newton put a better 
bull than this into fact, for, having made a large hole in his 
study door for his cat to creep through, he made a small 
hole beside it for the kitten. 

The truly broad humor of the Irish mind was to be found 
in my day among the peasantry, and on this point I will 
quote testimony from the North British Review, which fully 
corroborates my own early expei-ience. "In genuine humor, 
whether of the mirthful or the satirical order," the writer 
avers, " the Irish peasantry are superior to both the Eng- 
lish and the Scotch, An Irishman is not, as it is often 
supposed, a mere blunderer into fun. No man can seek 
occasions for humor. But when occasions come, the Irish- 
man is prompt and ready. "An Irishman," the writer tells. 



Irish Social Character. 227 

" thus describes his cold reception by an old friend : ' I saw 
Pat Ryan t'other side of the way. I thought it was Pat, 
and Pat thought it was me ; and when I came up, shure, 
it was neither of us.'" "A poor old Irish cripple," says the 
North British Keviewer, " sat begging at a bridge, urging 
his appeal to the charitj' of passengers with the eager and 
versatile eloquence of his country. A gentleman and lady, 
young, gay, and handsome, with that peculiar look of 
gratified and complacent consciousness which indicates the 
first few weeks of married life, crossed the bridge. They 
regarded not the petition of the beggar, so, just as they 
passed him, he exclaimed, ' May the blessing of the Lord, 
which brings love, and joy, and wealth, and a fine family, 
follow you all the days of your life.' A pause. The couple 
passed heedlessly on, and the beggar, with a fine touch 
of caustic humor, added, '■and never overtake you.'" This is 
almost as good as what the pavior said to Dr. Abernethy. 
In the necessity of his work, the pavior had gathered stones 
around the doctor's dooi'. "Take these stones out of my 
way," said the surly doctor. "Where shall I take them 
to ?" asked the pavior. " Take them to hell," roared the 
great surgeon. "Wouldn't they be more out of your 
honor's way in t'other place ?'' 

But Irish popular humor, in my time, appeared never so 
much in the oddity of cunning as in the native drollery of 
some local individual. Every district had its comic charac- 
ter, its chartered libertine. The most remarkable character 
of this kind that I used to hear of I will call Darby Quirk. 
Darby had been negligent of his religious duties. The 
priest sought him out in order to remonstrate with him on 
this neglect. "W^hy do you stay from Mass?" said the 
priest. "Because of my respect for religion,'' answered 
Darby. " Your respect for religion ?" " Yes, your river- 
ence. Do you think I'd have the audacious contimpt to go 



228 Giles' Lectures. 

into the beautiful and holy temple with such a tarmagant of 
a coat. Look at this coat, your rivereuce ; wouldn't it wear 
every bit of religion out of me, if I had as much in me as 
there was in St, Patrick ? If I had the patience of Job, io 
would soak every drop of it out of me, and, faith, it would 
have been worse for the patriarch a good deal than the 
wife he had. It would take the bishop himself to work out 
his salvation in it, and after all he'd have to do it with fear 
and trembling. It is a pinance to get into it, it is a pin- 
ance to get out of it, and the wearin' of it is worse nor the 
treadmill. But in the temptation of swarin', it's the worse 
of all. If your riverence was in this coat, nabockHsh, but 
you'd sware like a throoper. When I want in the morn- 
ing to run my arm through the sleeve, up it dashes through 
the back ; thin I whispers quietly : ' Botheration to you !' 
Next I thries the other hand, and it's where the pocket used 
to be I find it. Thin I grinds my teeth at it and feels the 
oaths coming up my throat ; but I stops them, your 
i-iverence, if I can, at Adam's apple, and only mutthers to 
myself, 'Sweet bad luck to you!' and 'The curse of Crom- 
well on you.' At last, when I gets my body into it, and 
begins to square my elbows, smash it goes, fi'om the collar 
to the skirts. Thin I shouts aloud what I daren't tell your 
riverence — till your rivei-ence buys me a coat that 'ill be 
dacent to go to confession in. In a respictable coat, yer 
riverence, I'd be a credit to j'ou ; I'd be the jewel of a 
Christian, and a pattern of the parish." Darby obtained 
a new coat, but whether he became the jewel of a Christian, 
or a pattern of the parish, never could I learn. 

A story I used to hear of the alleged twofold tendency of 
Irishmen to blunders and to bumpers. I stole the substance 
of it from some one, and where he stole what I made it fi'om, 
I never knew ; but I have so often seen mi/ version of it in 
the newspapers, that I am now almost ashamed to venture 



Irish Social Character. 229 

on a new edition of it. And yet it is so characteristic of 
things that ^vcrc, " when George the Third was king," that 
I must even give it. 'Tim, asthore," says Shamns, "I 
dhramed a quare dhrame hist night." "What was it?" says 
Tim. " I dhramed I went to see the king." " Suppose you 
did, what did you say to the king?" "I said, 'God save 
your majesty!'" "And what did the king say to you?" 
"Misha, what could lie say but, 'God save you kindly, Sha- 
mus!' and thin, with an uncommon polite look, he said, 
* How does the world use you, and how is the woman that 
owns you?' ' Och, as to the world, your majesty, it's not so 
bad ; and as for the woman that owns me, she's bravely, 
thank your majesty, and is mother of a dozen chilther.' 
' Just the case of my own owld woman, Shamus, mavourneen,' 
says his majesty. 'And now, Shamus, ma bouchal, as wo 
are on family concerns, and as I would like to have some 
advice from you in that respect, do you think a dhrop of the 
crathur ud harm you ?' * No more, your majesty, than the 
flowers in May.' 'Would you like a small taste on the 
present occasion ?' said his majesty. ' Would a duck swim, 
your majesty, or does the cat know the way to the dairy ?' 
' What will it be, Shamus ?' ' Punch, your majesty,' says I. 
•Hot or cowld?' says he. 'Hot, your majesty,' says I. 
'Och, niver bother it,' says he; 'the queen has gone to bed, 
and the cook is fast asleep ; but wait awhile, I'll go down to 
the kitchen myself and bile some water.' Shuro I awoke 
while his majesty was away, and wasn't I spited that I didn't 
take the liquor cowld." 

Irish humor is direct, individual, and imaginative. It 
does not deal merely in extravagance and exaggeration — it 
does not deal in cant words or phrases — it does not become 
suggestive of laughter from mere accident or repetition. It 
may be broad and Avild ; so it constantly is ; but it is so by 
inward idea, and not by outward excess. In Irish humor 



230 GHes' Lectures. 

the substance changes as the form changes, and in every 
new instance of the hidicrous there is a new mood of mind. 
That which is most popular is hixuriant, hilarious, some- 
times riotous in mirth; sometimes on the verge of poetrj^; 
often there is satiric meaning in its drollery, and a sharp 
sting in its assumed simplicity; always, it is full of life. 
Humor in the mirthful Irishman is genial and exuberant. 
It diffuses itself through his whole nature. It is not an 
effort, but an inspiration. It is vivid, rapid, careless. It 
illuminates his face, moulds his gestures, hangs around him 
in his costume, lurks in the turn of his lip, in the twinkle of 
his eye, and seems to laugh at j'ou from his hat that hangs 
upon a peg. It is warm with the fires of humanity. It is 
aglow in his blood ; a gala and a festival in his faculties. 
This geniality of temperament has been to the Irish for 
many ills of life a wonderful compensation. Sad as their 
circumstances have been, they have manfully sustained 
themselves against fate. Thej'^ have never allowed distress 
to drive them to despair ; but, in patience and perseverance, 
they have still outlived misfortune. They could joke over 
their potatoes, and sweeten the big one Avith the little one. 
"When taint or bhght left neither the big nor the little one, 
multitudes encountered famine unto death, and they died, 
in their extremity, without bitterness or blasphemy. 

Pathos and humor have a common source in the centre 
of strong feeling. The same sensibility which brightens the 
eye with laughter in one moment, fills it with tears in an- 
other. It is by the same sympathy of life that we weep 
with those who weep, and that we rejoice with those who do 
rejoice. Melancholy and mirth, grief and gladness, are the 
offspring of heart; and wherever there is much heart, there 
will be much of mirth and melancholy The heart which 
is most alive to the holiday of pleasure, is also most alive to 
the visitation of distress. The element of heart enters 



Irish Social Character. 231 

larcjely into Irish nature, and this nuturo shows that the 
tragic in hfo has not been less in its experience than the 
comic. I might say, much more has the tragic been in it ; 
for the history of Ireland has been one long tragedy, con- 
tinued from century to century. The history of Ireland has 
been a history of sadness, of suffering, of disturbance, and 
of disease. On the side of the governing, of power without 
grandeur, of coercion without conquest, of strictness with- 
out method, and of severity without wisdom ; on the side 
of the governed, of passion without force, of subjection with- 
out submission, of resistance without achievement, of pa- 
thetic complaint and wild excitement, of writhing pride that, 
maddened by defeated struggle, gnawed the chain which it 
failed to break. All this bitterness of historic experience 
has not been without effect on Irish character. 

The native Irish character is not the thing of levity which 
it seems in its gayer moments. It does not always caper for 
want of thought, but often because of thought — of thought 
which it cannot silence; and the loud laugh docs not so 
frc([ucntly bespeak the vacant as it does the burdened mind. 
This is luiman nature. Character which has been formed 
in an atmosphere of melancholy, will be the most sul)joct to 
boisterous merrhncnt. This too is Irish nature; and, ac- 
cordingly, the spirit of melancholy is ever in tlie centre, let 
what may bo on the surface. There is gravity behind tho 
smile ; bitterness may be felt in banter ; a sting is in Irish 
sarcasm ; sadness is insinuated in an Irish joke, and wails 
through the fantastic frolics of an Irish jig. It might seem, 
then, as if a genuine lecture on social life in Ireland should 
consist of thoughts steeped in the heart of sorrow, and of 
words written with scalding tears. I can well feel that such 
a lecture might be appropriate and just. But I have spoken 
and written }uuch on tho serious aspects of Irish life; sol 
take one opportunity to dwell on the humorous side of it. 



232 Giles' Lectures. 

But whether on the serious oi the humorous, I feel that in 
speaking- about Irehmd, as I know it, I am speaking of Oie 
past. I fool too that I speak in the spirit of the past. I can- 
not help this. Others may have " a Youn<^ Ireland ;'' to me, 
Ireland is, and must always be, " Old Ireland." I see her 
throu-;h the mists of memory; I see her w'ith the mists of 
ocean resting on her hills, with mists of time resting on her 
towers ; I hear, as afar olV, the eternal music of the waves 
ai'ound her coast ; I hear in her valleys and her caves the 
songs of the winds soft as the sounds of harps ; I recall her 
in many a vision of lonely beauty, brightened by the sun- 
shine on river, lake, and dell; in many a vision too of som- 
bre glory in the battle of the tempests against her mountain 
summits and her rock-bound shores. I bring her )ui(ional 
life back to my mind in heroic storj', in saintly legend, in 
tales passionate and wild, in the grand old poetry of the 
supernatural and solemn imagination, which people love to 
whose spirits the soul of the immortal whispers, on whose 
eju's there linger the voices of the mighty past. I bring 
lier domestic life back to my heart in her gracious old affec- 
tions which so sweeten eartlily care, in her gracious old 
phrases into which these old affections breathe ; for never 
did fondness deepen into richer melody of love than in 
" cuishla machree ;" and never did the welcome of hospi- 
tiility sound in more generous eloquence than in that of 
"coad mille failthe." All those come back tome through 
the spaces of years ; and my heart answers to them witli 
"Erin mavourneen." If I forget thee, Ii-eland! let my right 
hand forgot its cunning ; if ever I do not speak of thee lov- 
ingly and rovercDtJy, let my tongue cleave to the roof of 
mv mouth. 




CJERALD ORTFFTN. 



Gerald (jIiukfin, Uh) brilliiuil, novelist, and jxxsl, foniiH ilie 
Rubjcc.t of iluH l(!(!l,iin). 

His pjirciitH belonged to i-cspoeliiblo Jioiiiiiii (luiholio 
farnilios in the South of IrcliiMd. His father wuh a fairly 
cdtK^ated and iut(!llit,'ont inau ; JiIh inotlier was a woman of 
talonts, and of contiidorablo roadiji}^^ Sho was alno a woman 
of strong aH'csctionH, of doop RcniHibilil-y, of oarnoHt religious 
fooling, and of groat elovation of chariu^tcir. " Slio waw," 
HayH lior won, tho biographer of (^orald, " a porHon of ox(!eed- 
iiigly iiiio tasio on nioHt Hubjcc-tH, particularly on literature, 
for which fiho had a strong origiiuil turn, aiul which was, 
indc(!d, her paHsion." Alluding to her HOUHibilily, ho ob- 
sorvoH : 

"This senBibility, tho r(!Htl(!HK and (jxhaustiblo fountain of 
HO much hai)])in(!HH and ho much pain, kIio handcid down to 
her son (Jerald in all itH ontiroiuiHH. She was intimatcsly 
acquainted with tho bcsst modclH of ]<ing]iHh claH.sical litera- 
ture, took groat delight in thoir study, aiid alwayH ondoav- 
orod to cultivate a tanto for them in hor childrcsn. IJoHidoH 
that sound rcsligiouH inHtruction which hIio made secondary 
to nothing, and which in hor o])inion was tho foundation of 
everything good, it was her constant aim to infuse more 
strongly ijito their minds that nobility of sentiment and 
princely and honorable feeling in all transactions with others 
which are its necessary fruits, and whi(!h the world itself, in 



234 GUes^ Lcchtres. 

its greatest faitlifuluess to rcligiou, is compelled to worsliip. 
She would frequently through the day, or in the evening, 
ask us questions in history; and these were generally such 
as tended to strengthen our remembrance of the more im- 
portant passages, or to point out in any historical character 
those traits of moi'al beauty that she admired. ' Gerald,' I 
heard her ask, ' what did Camillus say to the schoolmaster 
of the Falerii '?' Gerald instantly sat erect in his chair, his 
countenance glowing with the indignation which such an act 
of baseness inspired, and repeated with energy, * Execrable 
villain !' cried the noble Koman, ' oiler thy abominable propo- 
sals to creatures like thyself, and not to me ! What though 
wc be enemies of your city, are there not natural ties that 
bind all mankind, which should never be broken ?' " 

A generous Roman spkit, Christianized and softened, also 
shows itself in her letters to her children and to others. 
Her husband, Patrick Grifdn, was an easy-going, cheerful, 
home-loving man, with a tendency to oddity and humor. 
This couple had many children ; and one of the younger was 
Gerald, who was born in the city of Limerick, December 12, 
1803. It will be seen that he inherited from his parents the 
finely-tempered and richly-mixed nature which is the soil of 
genius. Gerald received a portion of his childish instruction 
from an odd sort of pedagogue in Limerick named M'Eligot. 

" My mother," writes the biograpcr, " went to the school 
with the boys on the first day of their entrance. ' Mr. 
M'Ehgot,' said she, ' you Avill oblige me very much by pay- 
ing particular attention to the boys' pronunciation, and 
making them perfect in their reading.' Ho looked at her 
with astonishment. 'Madam,' said he, abruptly, 'you had 
better take your children home. I can have nothing to do 
with them.' She expressed some surprise. ' Perhaps, Mrs. 
Grifiin,' said he, after a pause, ' you are not aware that there 
are only thi-ee persons in Ireland who know how to read. 



Gerald Gri[fin. 235 

'Throe?' said slic. 'Yes, niadain, there are only three — 
the Bishop of Killaloe, the Earl of Clare, and your humble 
servant. Reading, madam, is a natural gift, not an ac(i[uire- 
ment. If you choose to expect impossibilities, you had 
bettor take your children home.' " 

This man was a true philosopher of the Dogberry order : 
"To be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune; but to 
write and read comes by nature." An amusing anecdote is 
told of another teacher of Gerald's. " Mr. Donovan," said 
one of the scholars, " how ought a person to pronounce the 
letter i in Latin ?" " If you intend to become a priest, 
Dick," said the master, in reply, "you may as well call it ee; 
but if not, you may call it ee or i, just as you fancy." 

One way and another, at home and in school, Gerald ac- 
quired a respectable education, including, if not a scholarly, 
at least, a gentlemanly knowledge of classical literature. 
Owing to the removal of the family fi'om the city, the youth- 
ful lot of Gerald was to live among the lovely scenes of the 
country near it, along the banks of the magnificent Shannon. 
By the influence of these on his senses and his fancy, by 
meditation and self-comnmnion in the solitude of fields and 
woods, or in the solemn stillness of grand old ruins, he had 
the training which was best suited to his ckaractcr and 
genius. The influences on his mind, of natural beauty and 
of ancient traditions, may be traced in all his writings, both 
of poetry and of prose. He had equally a passion for nature 
and a passion for the past. Earth, air, water, skies, suns, 
stars, " the dread magnificence of heaven," held over him a 
genial sway; so did the olden times of an olden race, by 
myth, legend, and heroic story. And this spirit of nature 
and of the past did not fail him, even in the gloomy bareness 
of a London garret. Even there, the divine vision of God's 
works was present to his imagination ; and songs of national 
inspiration came in sweet, sad music to his heart. Gerald, 



23(> Cili's' Lectvri'.'}. 

while very young, began to understand bis proper mental 
destiny, though ho Hved to lament that he had ever given 
way to it. He would not be a doctor, but a poet ; and so, 
while yet a mere boy, he set about composing tragedies, 
ballads, songs, tales, and sonnets. 

The elder Mr. Griffin, though a worthy and industrious 
man, did not prosper in the business of a brewer in Lim- 
erick ; nor does it appear that success attended his exertions 
in other occupations. Accordingly, he, his wife, and a portion 
of their familj', emigrated to America, about the year 1820, 
and settled in the County of Susquehanna, Penn., some hun- 
dred and forty miles from the City of New York. Gerald 
was left to the care of an elder brother, a physician, living 
and practising at a short distance from Limerick. He first 
began in Limerick his hterary career by fugitive contribu- 
tions to a newspaper, and, for a short time, imdertook 
vicariously its editorship. In Limerick also he first made 
the acquaintance of Mr. Banim, afterwards celebrated as the 
author of the " Tales by the O'Hara Family." But this local 
and provincial sphere Griffin felt to be too narrow for his 
talents and ambition ; so, a few weeks before the close of his 
twentieth year, he found himself in London, without friends, 
with little money, but with much confidence. He had a 
manuscript tragedy which was to lay the foundation of his 
fame and fortune ; and, when that was firmly laid, he formed 
the heroic resolution to reform the stage, and, artistically as 
well as morally, to bring about a revolution in the opera. 
I heard lately of a zealous Christian who enthusiastically 
declared that, when he should go to the other world, his 
detormination was to labor to elevate souls to his own level. 
I did not learn what he thought that level was to be ; but 
whatever ho anticipated concerning it, the spiritual Quixot- 
ism of his infinite, eternal, and ghostly mission was not 
wilder or bolder than the intellectual and aesthetic Quixotism 



Gerald Griffin. 287 

of Gerald, when ho determined to raise the drama and tho 
opera of London to his own level. I have no moans of 
judging what the success of the good man alluded to may 
be in tho other world, but I have Gerald's own honest and 
laughable confession of the folly and the failure in this world 
of his noblo and disinterested plan. I say nothing on tlic 
modesty or humility of either of these self-constituted re- 
formers. I only trust that our philanthropist of tho next 
world may not have to be so lamentably disappointed as 
Gerald was in tho stony-hearted world of London. Though 
Gerald conquered at last in a struggle which was all but 
fatal, he suffered in London miseries that are almoat 
incredible. To this struggle I shall again return. 

It is a circumstance worthy of mention, that Banim and 
Griffin, strictly members outwardly of tho Koman Catholic 
Church, began at one time to doubt the truth of Christianity. 
Both, on studying tho woi'ks of Paley, were not only con- 
firmed in the faith of Christianity, but l>ocame inwardly 
more devoted CathoHcs. I do not attempt to account for 
this, which to some may seem a paradox. I allude to it 
in order to make a simple remark. It has been the fashion 
of late to stigmatize Paley as merely a utilitarian sensation- 
alist and worldling ; but I think that many have gained 
moral and political insight from his works which they (^ouhl 
never otherwise have gained. My own philosophy, intel- 
lectual and ethical, is almost the opposite in its principles 
to that of Paley; but I honor the man who did, for tho 
progress of civil and religious liberty of his own day, a 
manly work, who did it too in a manly way, and in most 
manly English. 

After Gerald Griffin had stamped his name in English 
literature, ho alternated for awhile between Ireland and 
London; took a tour in (Scotland, of which he kept an inter- 
esting journal, and then returned home for life ; but that 



238 Giles' Lectures. 

was not for long. Oul}' ti brief period lay now between him 
and the grave. "When be bad attained to fame, and was 
surely on tbe way to wealtb, be at once and for ever turned 
from tbe literary life in wbicb bo bad so determinedly fougbt 
and so bravely conquered. He became a monk among tbo 
Cbristiiui Brotbers — an order dedicated to tbe education of 
tbe poor — a vocation wbicb, so long as life Avas left bim, be 
fullillcd witb exemplary goodness and wisdom. Tbis was 
not long. Ho died in tbe monastexy of tbe Cbristian Brotb- 
ers, in Cork, on tbo I'Jtb of June, 1810, in tbe tbirty-seveutb 
year of bis age. So lowly did be tbink of bimself as to bis 
spiritual state, tbat be sbrauk from entering into priestly 
orders. AVben be bad decided to live a monastic life, be 
regretted all tbe years bo bad given to literature as wasted, 
or worse tban wasted. Had be tbe powex", be would bavo 
exterminated works in wbicb bis genius lives for tbe bonor 
of bis own name and tbe credit of bis country'; also for 
barmlcss pleasure, even for tbe edilication of countless tbou- 
sands. Ho did destroy, before bis friends could bavo bad 
any suspicion of bis intention, a large quantity of manu- 
scripts, wbicb may bave contained works tbat possibly were 
better and riper tban any bo bad publisbed. Tbis loss to 
literature bis brotberly biogra]>bor very naturally laments ; 
and if be bad bad any knowledge of tbo autbor's purpose, 
be Avould bave done bis utmost to pi'event tbe loss. 

A strangely romantic and poetic episode runs tbrougb tbe 
last ten years of Gerald Grilbn's life. Gerald GriiHn, like 
Cbarles Lamb, seemed to bave bad a special regard for tbe 
Society of Friends. He became acquainted, in Limerick, 

witb a Mr. and Mrs. , wbo belonged to tbat religious 

body. Tbere sprang up between tbe couple and tbe poet 
tbe strongest mutual attacbment. Tbe feelings of tbe poet 
towards tbe lady, tbougb evidently of reverential purity, 
were colored, nay, beautiiied, by tbo diUbrenco of sex, and 



Gerald Griffin. 230 

amounted to an entLusiastic, an impassioned friend.sliip. 
His letters to lier are very numerous, very eloquent, and 
often very elevated. His last letter, presenting her with an 
old desk, on which all his literary work had been accom- 
plished, is tender and musical with pathos and affection. 
Shortly after he became a monk, she called to see him. 
AV'hen her name was announced, ho was walking in the gar- 
don. He turned pale, hesitated, but at last, though with 
strong emotion, refused to see her. A form of the anecdote 
which lurks in our memory adds that, when this message of 
denial was given to her, she burst into tears. Some most 
afiecting lines addi-essed to her wex*e found, after his death, 
among his papers. 

Gerald Griffin was of the vei-y best personal appearance. 
The following passage, in which his brother, a physician, 
describes a visit to him in London, will give a more truthful 
and vivid impression of it than could any second-hand sum- 
mary of ours. 

" On my arrival in London from Edinburgh, in the month 
of September, 1820, I found him occupying neatly-furnished 
apartments in Northumberland street, Itegent's Park. I 
had not seen him since he left Adare, and was struck with 
the change in his appearance. All color had left his cheek ; 
he had grown very thin; and there was a sedate expression 
of countenance, unusual for one so young, and which, in 
after years, became habitual to him. It was far from being 
so, however, at the time I speak of, and readily gave place 
to that light and lively glance of his dark eye, that cheerful- 
ness of manner and observant humor which, from his very 
infancy, had enlivened our fireside circle at home. Although 
so pale and thin as I have described him, his tall figure, 
expressive features, and his profusion of dark hair, thrown 
Ijack from a fine forehead, gave an impression of a person 
remarkably handsome and interesting." 



240 Giles' Lectures. 

My limits confine mo to this meagro outline of Griffin's 
life. His biography is written by a fraternal hand, with 
such aflectionatc and modest cloqiienco as to show that the 
writer was kindred in genius as well as in blood with the 
girted brother of whona ho wrote. To that biography I 
refer my hearers ; and I can promise them all the interest 
which the struggles of a heroic literary experience, admir- 
ably recorded, can impart. 

I now offer some observations on Gerald GrilHn's char- 
acter, personal and literary. I do this, because I con- 
ceive that some peculiarities in his character tended to 
increase his difficulties in London, as these difficulties, in 
turn, tended to bring out his character, and help us to un- 
derstand it. 

He was, in the first place, of a very reserved temper with 
strangers. The English were wholly strange to him ; and, 
of all English, Londoners would be, to a temper such as 
this, most forbidding : yet Gerald Griffin, while only a boy, 
plunged into the crowded wilderness of London. And this 
reseiwe Avould, at that period (1823), be rendered colder, 
mare cautious, more sensitive, by the consciousness that, as 
a Koman Catholic Irishman, his position would be regarded, 
politically and socially, as one of inferiority. Whatever 
embarrasses ourselves embarrasses also those with whom we 
come into contact. "Whatever tends to keep us apart from 
others tends equally to keep them apart from us, and the 
distance is thus doubled. The reserved temper of Griffin, 
together with his inexperience of the world, and particularly 
his ignorance of English character, would, as I have said, 
naturally inci*easo all his difficulties in London. It is not 
likely that such a youth would easily or readily conciliate 
publishers or managers, who, though often servile to the 
successful, are as often haughty to the untried, and account 
their independence impudence. Gerald wanted that push- 



Gerald Gnffln. 211 

ing manner which has a cortaiii vulfj^ar i)owo,r in it, iliaf; 
frequently carries mediocu-ity into notice, into a f^'aini'ul 
notori(!ty, and a " Bruniina^oni '' ])o})nlarity. Nciither liad 
he that jovial buoyancy which, by a joke, story, or a lau;^h, 
Konietinies Avius I'avor I'roiu the most sellish or the mosfc 
worldly. Courteous, amiable, and by nature f^'ay and ehecu-- 
ful as (ji(!ra]d was, he was, iiotwitlistanding the amount of 
humor that was in his ji[(;nius, no laugher-at-lar^(!, and, in 
his own person, no laugh-nuilvcr. A great force of purpose 
gave his character a tendency to austerity; but his stoicism 
was one of higli principle, the instinct of personal dignity 
softened by Christian feeling and by gentlemanly grace. 

This independent personality in Gerald (Jlrillin, which 
might, as we have supposed, embarrass his intcr(;ourse with 
strangers, did so, as we are informed, with fritiuds. JTo 
kept his relatives in Ireland igncn-ant of his condition, and 
he did not inform iliose in Anuiriea of his troubles until ho 
was well over them. Not that he k(!pt silent either. On 
the contrary, like poor Chattertou, when his wretchedness 
was darkest, he was writing the most ho])eful l(!tt(u-s. In 
these dismal (urcumstanccs he refuscid the generous oHer of 
pecuniary assistance from INIr. JJaiiim, a fellcnv-countryman, 
afellow-Catholi(r, a fellow-autlior, and a most intimate fri(;nd. 
A kind acquaintance of (jiriniu's, with whom ho used t(; dino 
frecpiently, was oblige<l, by diniculties in business, to reside 
within what are called "The ]lules" — a space of sanctuary 
allowed by the Court of Queen's Bench to a certain class of 
debtors. This affectionate fi-iend, at the risk of close impris- 
onment and heavy penalties, ventured to pass the. forbidden 
bounds, and, sheltered by darkness, made his way to ({(!!•- 
aid's obscure lodgings. He found him tluirt;, past midnight, 
hard at work : ho had not a single shilling left, and, for 
tliree days, he had not tast(;d food. " (Jood (Jod !" s;u"d the 
friend, "why did you n<jt come to see me V" "Oh!" said 

11 



242 Giles' Lectures. 

Gerald, quietly, " you would not have me throw myself upon 
a man who was himself in prison." The friend, however, 
saw that he had immediately all that his condition required. 
While Griffin was thus starving, he was obliged to refuse 
invitations to luxurious dinners, and the society of cultivated 
minds, because his clothes were ragged; for the same reason 
he had to skulk out of nights in order to take some exercise 
and breathe fresh air. The letter in Avhich he afterwards 
describes these sufferings to his mother is one of the most 
pathetic compositions to be found in the personal histories 
of men of letters. These sufferings from bodily want, ex- 
hausting toil, and an overtaxed mind, brought on a danger- 
ous illness — nervous debility, and irregular action of the 
heart. It was only a sudden visit of his medical brother 
that saved his life ; but from the results of this illness he 
never entirely recovered. 

Stoic though Gerald Griffin was, he did not neglect to 
seek the aid of such influence as a high-minded man might 
honorably accept ; but disappointment, disgust, and failure 
were all that his exertions brought him ; at least, they 
brought him no such siiccess as would compensate for th(? 
pain and labor of making them. So he determined to stand 
upon his own talents. If they were not sufficient to maintain 
his claims, then his claims had no real foundation. "It is 
odd ; but I have never been successful, except where I 
depended entirely on my own exertions." If these should 
not sustain him, he resolved to abandon the struggle. He 
did not abandon the struggle, but persevered with courage 
and determination. There was no giving in. " That horrid 
word 'failure!'" he exclaims. "No; death first!" He was 
no dreamer or visionary, but a hard and honest worker-. 
No man within a given time wrote more than Griffin, or 
more variously. He Avas ready to do any reputable work 
which Avas given him to do, and to do it well. He had the 



Gerald Griffin. 243 

most elevated ideas of literature, both as an art and as a 
profession, as lie had also of the dignity and duties of a 
literary man ; it was genuine elevation, and modest because 
genuine ; it was not the assumption of puffed-up self-con- 
ceit, or the pomposity of flattered vanity. In Griffin's view, 
it was noble to do work which it was honest and of good 
report to do ; and therefore ho never shrank from the 
humblest tasks, when higher ones came not in his way. He 
never failed in confidence ; but it was confidence founded 
in strength — the strength of Christian patience, of conscious 
genius, of a firm will, of a determination not to be con- 
quered ; and, after much tribulation, he won no inglorious 
victory. 

Perhaps no adventurer of letters ever endured more 
hardships in the same length of time, in London, than 
Gerald Griffin did, and endured them with less moral injury 
to his personal or Hterary character. Griffin seems to have 
escaped all the hurtful influences which pain, want, and 
uncertainty so often and so fatally have upon character. 
He kept himself free of all meanness, all coarseness, from 
low companionships, from degrading and degraded habits, 
and came out of the trial a young man with his home-born 
purity unsullied, a Christian with his faith more confirmed, 
a gentleman unharmed in his honor or refinement, and a 
writer who won success and the public by his own inde- 
pendent genius, bearing his triumph with true and graceful 
modesty. When I call to mind how many able, brilliant, 
and even amiable men the literary life in London has 
morally prostrated or destroyed, I cannot but give high 
praise to Griffin, that he did not yield to temptations before 
which strong men have fallen. 

It would be interesting to compare fully Griffin's experi- 
ence in London with that of other literary adventurers who 
had tried their fortune there before him-; but I must resist 



244 Gilcs^ Lectures. 

the allurement. Johnson -would come first to mind. GrifFiU; 
as a youth, had the same courage which Johnson showed 
at maturity. He held the literary vocation in as high esteem, 
and followed it with the same affection and devotedness. 
Like Goldsmith, he eschewed patrons, and hoped for noth- 
ing but from the public and the publishers. He had not 
the open, easy, careless good-nature of Goldsmith ; but 
neither had he his imprudence and improvidence. He had 
a regard for his personal dignity, in which Goldsmith was 
deficient ; and he took care, as Goldsmith did not, to guard 
this dignity. Savage, Chatterton, and Dermody may sug- 
gest themselves to many : but Savage was a charlatan ; 
Chatterton was a man of genius by the gift of God, but 
chose to become an impostor by the instigation of the devil, 
and preferred infamy to fame. He " perished in his prime " 
by a double suicide : first, the suicide of his inner life; and 
secondly, the suicide of his outward life. Dermody was 
only a clever sot — a pot-house poet. To none of these has 
Griffiin any moral relation. To Chatterton he was mentally 
related in the early unfolding of striking talents, and inci- 
dentally in having come near to the chasm of despair, into 
which Chatterton, being void of faith, took the fatal leap. 
The biographer of Gerald Griffin compares his literary char- 
acter with that of Crabbe, to the disadvantage of Crabbe. 
The remarks abovit Crabbe I regard as hardly just or 
generous. Besides, they are unnecessary; for there is no 
need that we should accuse Crabbe of serA'ility, in order that 
we should glorify Griffin for independence. Both were true 
men, and neither in Avorth nor fame does one stand in the 
other's way. 

Does it not seem, however, as if the desperate struggles of 
such remarkable persons would be a warning and a terror 
to indigent young men against literary ambition ; at least, 
against their plunging themselves with blind impetuosity 



Gerald Griffin. 245 

into tlie dark wliirlpooJs of mighty cities? But these young 
men see, in the lottery of the game of Hterary ambition, 
only the winners and the prizes. They think not of the 
losers or of the lost. Lucian, I believe it is, who tells us 
of a sailor that, having escaped from shipwreck, went into 
the temple of Neptune to make a votive offering. " Some in- 
dividuals," said the priest, " seem to scofl* at the power of 
Neptune ; but look around, and ' behold the numerous 
tributes of those whom he has saved." " But where," asked 
the sailor, " are those whom he has drowned ?" And so, if 
some, after London misery, have reached the glory of 
literary reward, what conception can we form of the wretch- 
edness of the obscure thousands who sank into its gloomy 
depths never to be heard of more?— many, indeed, self- 
deluded, many vain, ignorant, and presumptuous, but also 
many of as true genius as those who succeeded. Might not 
one suppose that, before entering such a career, a young 
man would say to himself, " Where will it end ?" And, end 
where it may, does the gain bear any proportion to the risk, 
while the chances of loss are incalculable, and loss itself is 
often deadly ? Have not men, too, who gained all that 
genius could desire, confessed at last that, in substance, 
experience was much the same in literary life as it is in 
common life ? Never was there a man more covetous of 
literary distinction than Gerald Griffin ; and yet, before he 
had reached half-way to the eminence it was in his power to 
attain, he wearied of the aspiration which had carried him 
so far. Notwithstanding, the charm will work ; and, in 
order that some may rise into the open day of fame, thou- 
sands sink into the thick night of poverty and despair. 

But is it not so in all nature? The whole of hfe is risk; 
but risk does not therefore paralyze life; because, through 
life, hope ever goes along with danger. If danger deterred 
fi'om action, the world would soon be at an end ; it would 



246 Giks^ Lectures. 

have no armies, no navies, no commerce, no travel, no ex- 
plorings of sea or land ; it would cease even to be peopled, 
for men would not run the risk of establishing and support- 
ing homes, or women that of marriage and child-bearing. 
If Jove's brain travailed with Minerva, if the mountain 
labored, as fable tells us, with a mouse, so will brains, till 
the end of time, palpitate with literary gestation, whether 
the result of parturition be wisdom or foil}', mice or Mi- 
nervas. 

I proceed to some remarks on Gerald Griffin's genius 
and writings. 

Griffin was certainly a man of genius — a man having a 
certain inborn aptitude, which is not the resu.lt of education 
and industr}'. This sets him who has it apart, not only 
from ordinary, but also from merely able men. For the 
mysterious something wherein this difference lies, we have 
no other name than genius ; and, though it cannot be form- 
ally defined or explained, its presence in any product of 
mind is recognized with unfailing certainty. It became 
active in Griffin while he was very young. Indeed, when 
Griffin gave up literature, he was still young ; so that Griffin 
was always a 3'oung author, and yet we might say that he 
was also a ripe one. From the first, he displayed a certain 
masculine vigor altogether different from the feebleness 
which sometimes characterizes the compositions of young 
writers who afterwards become remarkable for their 
strength. The early power of Griffin we see in the fact that 
his tragedy of " Gysippus " was written in his twentieth 
year ; his romance of " The Collegians," in his twenty-fifth. 
He had an inventive and bold imagination : to this his 
power and variety in the creation of character bear witness. 
He had great fullness of sensibihty and fancy, as we observe 
in the picturesqueness of his style, and in his wealth of 
imagery. He delighted in outward nature, and is a fine 



Gerald Griffin. 247 

describcr of it ; but, like Sir Walter Scott, lie never de- 
scribes for the sake of description, but always in connection 
with human interest and incident. He excels in the pa- 
thetic ; but it is in passion that he has most power — strong- 
natural passion, and such as it is in those individuals in 
Avhom it is strongest and most natural — individuals in the 
middle and lower ranks of life, especially in the middle and 
lower ranks of Irish life. It was in these ranks, and in Irish 
life, that Griffin found the spirit and the substance of his 
characters. He was a rapid and productive writer, and as 
much at home in criticising as in creating. He passionately 
loved music, and, by instinct, taste, and knowledge, was an 
excellent critic of it, as he was also of literature. His 
genius, too, was of the most refined moral purity, without 
sermonizing or cant ; and when we reflect that guilt, and 
sin, and passion, low characters, vulgar life, and broad 
humor are so constantly the subjects with which it is con- 
cerned, this purity is no less remarkable than it is admira- 
ble. Every such case elevates literature, and makes it the 
source of a new pleasure ; for it practically proves that the 
utmost freedom of genius may be exercised without offend- 
ing the most rigid or alarming the most sensitive. 

The poems of Gerald Griffin fill one large, thick volume 
of his works. Besides the tragedy of " Gysippus," they 
consist mostly of lyrical pieces gathered out of his several 
fictions through which they are interspersed. They are 
characterized by sweetness, feeling, and fancy. I regard 
Griffin's lyrics as his best poems, and his simple songs 
as his best lyrics. I think that, had he chosen to write 
Songs cf Ireland, and Songs for Ireland, though he might 
never have attained the indescribable refinement of Moore, 
his songs w^ould have had in them more music of the heart, 
and more homely nationality. Many of Griffin's songs have 
been popular ; often sung and often quoted — such as " Old 



248 GUes' Lectures. 

Tiiuos, Old Tiiutvs," "A Place in Thy j\[innory, Dearest," 
"My Mary of the Curhug Hair," " Gilli-Ma-Chree," aud 
otliers. 

Here is a song which I venture to quote. In spite of its 
Irish phrases, the most Enghsh ear cannot be dead to the 
spirit of its beauty. It is pathetic and original. It does 
for the bride's young life what " John Anderson my jo " does 
for the wifely faith of age — it breathes the unsensual and 
unseliish affection of woman's heart. Love is usually cele- 
brated in song for passion and for youth ; Burns celebrates 
it for purity and old age. In the one case, love looks to the 
future; in the other, it looks to the past. So, iisiially, the 
bride is made joyful in giving her life to her husband ; in 
Grillin's song, she is made sad in separating it from that of 
her old parents. The thought is good, and true, and natu- 
ral—more exquisite even than that of Burns; for in his there 
is no future ; but in Grillin's, the hope of the future is for 
a time lost in the dutiful feelings of the past. 

Tlio inii'-ii:i-niallah*' now is p.ist, 

wina-stluu ! Avirra-stlivu !f 
And 1 imist Iciive my home at List, 

\virni-sthvn ! wina-sthni ! 
I look into my father's eyes, 
I hear my mother's parting sigh — 
All ! to pine for other ties — 

wirra-sthni ! wirra-sthru ! 

This evening Ihey nuist sit alone, 

Nvirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 
They'll talk of me when I am gone, 

O wirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 
AVho will eheer my weary sire, 
■\Vheu toil and eare his heart shall tiro? 
Jly ehair is empty by the lire — 

wirra-sthru ! w irra-slhrn ! 

* Ilonoymoon. 

t Similar to tlio Eajjlish i>hras(», " .VL, Uio pity of Itl" 



Gerald Griffin. 249 

IIow sunny looks my pleasant home ! 

wina-sthru ! wiira-sthni ! 
Those flowers for mc shall never bloom, 

wirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 
I seek new friends, and I am told 
That they are rich in land and gold ! 
Ah ! will they love mc like the old ? 

wirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 

Farewell, dear friends, we meet no more, 

wirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 
My husband's horse is at the door, 

wirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 
Ah, love ! ah, love ! be kind to me ; 
For, by this breaking heart you see 
How dcarlj' I have purchased thee ! 

wirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 

Here is a lyric, "The Bridal "Wake," of so weird a patlioa 
as to remind one of Burger's genius : 

'l"he priest stood at the marriage board, 

llie marriage cake was made. 
With meat the marriage chest was stored. 

Decked was the marriage bed. 
The old man sat beside the fire. 

The jnotlier sat by him. 
The white bride was in gay attire, 

I5ut her dark eye was dim. 
Uhilah! Ululah! 
The niglit falls quick, the sun is set : 
Her love is on tlu; water yet. 

I saw a red cloud in the west. 

Against the morning light : 
Heaven shield the youth that she loves best 

From evil chance to-night! 
The door flings wide ; loud moans the gale ; 

Wiki fear her bosom fills ; 
It is, it is the Banshee's wail 

Over the darkened hills ! 
Ululah! Ululah! 
The day is past ! the night is dark ! 
The waves are mounting round his bark ! 



250 Giles' Lectures. 

Tlie guests sit round the bridal bed, 

Aud break tlic bridal cake ; 
But tlicy sit by tlie dead mau's head, 

And hold his wedding Avakc. 
The bride is praying in her room, 

The place is silent all ! — 
A fearful call ! a sudden doom ! 

Bridal and funeral ! 
Ululah! Ulnlah! 
A youth to Kilfieheras' '* ta'en, 
That never will return again. 

I'd show how early and how vigorously the poetic faculty 
became active in Gerald Griffin, I quote the following 
sonnet, Avritten when he was but seventeen, and also to 
show how profoundly his mind was inspired with religious 
thought : 

I looked upon tlie dark and sullen sea, 
Over whose slumbering wave tlie night's mist hung. 
Till from the morn's gray breast a fresh wind sprung, 

And sought its brightening bosom joyously : 

Tlien fled tlie mists its quickening breath before : 
Tlie glad sea rose to meet it ; and each wave, 
Betiring from tlie sweet caress it gave. 

Made summer music to tlie listening shore. 

So slept my soul, unmindful of thy reign ; 
But the sweet breath of thy celestial grace 
Hath risen. Oh ! let its quickening spirit chase 

From that dark seat, each mist and secret stain. 

Till, as in yon clear water, mirrored ftiir, 

Heaven sees its own calm hues reflected there. 

Some two years after the author's death, "Gysippus" 
was performed in Drury Lane Theatre, and was received 
with much applause — the great Macready acting the prin- 
cipal character. As a poem, this play has been much 
admired ; and it deserves admiration. I admire it much 
myself for its generous and elevated sentiments, its dra- 

* Tlie name of a rlmrclivarcl. 



a IT aid Grl//hi. 251 

matic style, with its absence of long and fornial speeches, 
with its dialogue, sharp, natural, and rapid. I admire 
many of the situations and incidents as striking and pa- 
thetic ; still, as a whole, I do not think that it reaches 
those depths and mysteries of life and passion which it is 
the province of great tragedy to fathom and reveal. But, 
then, it is the tragedy of a boy; and who can tell what the 
boy might have become, had he devoted his manhood to 
compositions for the stage? As the fact stands, we have 
Gerald Griffin's fullest power in his prose fictions. 

Gerald Griflin is a delightful story-tcllei*. The merest 
matters of fact and the wildest legends are alike at his 
command ; and he tells with the same ease and the same 
fascinating interest a story of ghosts, fairies, witchcraft, or a 
story of guilt, grief, passion. His stories are of great 
variety' ; but they are all characteristically Irish; and Ireland 
has no need to be ashamed of them. The sjnrit of them is 
national, but the genius in them is individual. Gerald 
Griffin's own mark is on them. Nor are they mere copies — 
as Crofton Crocker's are — of fireside stories which the 
people used to tell among themselves, and tell them, too, 
miich better than Croker has told them. I am hardly sur- 
prised at Griffin's vexation, when finding himself placed by 
a Avriter in the Literary Gazelle by the side of Crofton 
Croker. " Only think," he exclaims, " only think of being 
".ompared with Crofton Crocker I" 

Grifiin's stories consist of three series — " Holland-tide 
Tales," " Tales of the Munster Festivals," and " Tales of the 
Tury-room." " The Holland-tide Tales " are supposed to be 
told by a group of persons met together for the sports of 
that evening ; those of the Jury-room, by jurymen who can- 
;iot agree upon a verdict, and who pass the night pleasantly, 
after a smuggled supper and mountain-dew, in telling sto- 
riea There is no attempt at connecting the two stories in 



252 Giles' Lectures. 

the volume which bears the title of " Tales of the Minister 
Festivals." lu the Holland-tide series, " The Barber of 
Bantry " is a very exciting story of circumstantial evidence. 
A number of events conspu-e to prove the barber to have 
been the murderer of a man who, with a large sum of 
money, took refuge in his house in a dark and stormy night, 
and who was never seen again. After many years, the bai'- 
ber is arrested on what seem to be infallible proofs of his 
guilt. 

"It will surprise you, Mr. Magistrate,'' he says on his ex- 
amination, " to learn that, notwithstanding all this weight of 
circumstance, I am not guilty of the offence with which you 
charge me. When I have proved my innocence, as I shall 
do, my case will furnish a strong instance of the fallibility 
of any evidence that is indirect in a case where human life 
is interested. All the circumstances are true — my extreme 
necessity'; his midnight visit to my house; his disappearance 
on that night, accompanied with signs of violence ; my sub- 
sequent increase of wealth; and the seeming revelation of 
my waking dream ; and yet I am not guilty of this crime. 
If you will have patience to listen, I will tell you how far my 
guilt extended and where it stopped." 

He then shows satisfactorily that he had nothing to do 
with the murder. The danger of capital conviction against 
innocent men seems to have painfully affected Griffin's mind. 
The impression was, perhaps, natural amidst the social cir- 
cumstances of Ireland, where disturbaiice and discontent 
have been so permanent, and where the administration of 
law has been often so hasty, so partial, and so passionate ; 
where, as Lord Chancellor lledesdale averred, there was one 
law for the rich, and another for the poor. This state of 
things Griffin has illustrated in a story called " The Proph- 
ecy." " Tracy's Ambition," in " Tales of the Munster Festi- 
vals," is a powerful and impassioned narrative. It displays 



Gerald Griffin. 253 

sharp insight into human nature and motives, and admiraljly 
exposes mean and base character and conduct. Family 
pride is a frequent topic with Griffin, and a peculiarly Irish 
form of it, in Avhich a scoundrel glories in the contempt that 
his aristocratic relatives lavish on him. There is a charac- 
ter of this kind in " The Half-Sir," and another in " The 
Ilivals." " Drink, my brother, drink," in the " Tales of the 
Jury-room," is a wild story of crime and passion, solemn, 
terrible, and pathetic. 

Gerald Grifiin was the author of three romances — " The 
Collegians," "The Duke of Monmouth," and "The Inva- 
sion." It is, however, "The Collegians" that has made 
Griffin most widely popular, and upon which it is likely that 
his fame will permanently rest. 

This romance is founded on a real occurrence, the murder 
of a young girl, Ellen Hanlon, by her seducer, John Scan- 
Ian, a member of a respectable family, and his servant, 
Stephen Sullivan. The servant was the actual butcher, but 
it was at the imperative command of his master ; and, in his 
confession before execution, ho revealed an incident, a most 
afiecting incident, which proved that humanity was not quite 
so dead in the servant as it was in the master. Seanlan 
sent Sullivan out in a boat with the girl to a desert place, 
some distance below the city of Limerick, where the Shan- 
non is broad and drearily lonely. Sullivan carried with 
him a musket, a rope, and probably a stone. With the mus- 
ket he was to batter his victim to death, and with the rope 
and stone to sink her corpse in the middle of the river. 
" The master remained upon the strand. After the interval 
of an hour, the boat returned, bearing back Ellen Hanlon 
unharmed. ' I thought I had made up my mind,' said the 
ruffian in his penitential declaration : ' I was just lifting the 
musket to dash her brains out; hut xohen I looked in her inno- 
cent face, I had not the heart to do it.' This excuse made no 



254 G//f,s' Lectures. 

impression on the merciless master." The master, having 
plied Sullivan with whiskey, sent him forth again ; and this 
time the bloody work was finished. By a most surprising 
chain of circumstances, the guilty pair were connected with 
their* crime; and Griffin, who so strongly objects to such 
kind of evidence, yet founds his story on it. The execution 
of Scanlan was attended with most painful and tragic cir- 
cumstances. To the last moment, Scanlan denied his guilt ; 
but, had there remained the sUghtest doubt, Sullivan's sub- 
sequent confession must have effectually removed it. The 
whole case is eloquently narrated in " Shell's Sketches of the 
Irish Bar," published some years ago in New York, amply 
annotated by Dr. Shelton Mackenzie. Enough of the nar- 
rative to explain the story is given in an appendix to " The 
Collegians," in Sadher's edition. I had nearly forgotten 
to mention that O'Connell was Scanlan's counsel. He saj's 
that he knocked up the principal witness against him. "But 
all would not do ; there were proofs enough besides to con- 
vict him." 

Of course, the real facts and personages are imaginatively 
colored in the romance. Hardress Cregan is a very modified 
John Scanlan, and Eily O'Connor is an idealized and puri- 
fied representative of Ellen Hanlon. In Danny Mann, the 
wickedness of Sullivan is made more hideous by the addi- 
tion of deformity. The rest of the many characters are 
original. As a dramatic tale of passion, we hardty know 
another which so quickly awakens interest, and which so 
intensely holds it to the end. This absorbing interest even 
the mechanical joinery of a playwright has not been able to 
weaken, in an adaptation of the story for the stage. The 
story has unity, action, movement — movement that, like fate, 
goes onward from the cheerful opening to the tragic close. 
The characters are numerous; and each, high or low, serious 
or comic, is a distinct individual. Hardress Cregan is very 



Gerald Griffin. 255 

powerfully conceived, and the conception is carried out with 
consistency and force. High genius was required to make a 
man like Hardress Cregan, so inconsistent, preserve the 
unity of his character in the most contradictory of his in- 
consistencies. It was an extraordinary achievement to bring 
together in one individual quahties so opposite, and yet to 
make the union accordant with the facts of life and nature ; 
high talents and tastes with low conduct ; courage with 
meanness ; generosity with selfishness ; obstinate willfulness 
with feeble purpose ; — a man having the elements of strong 
affections, and yet perverse, capricious, and unkind; having 
no real object but his own indulgence ; devoted for one hour, 
inconstant the next ; holding in jealous esteem the demands 
of honor, yet violating the simplest principles of honesty, 
truth, friendship, and humanity, until, at last, given over to 
a reprobate sense, dark with a self-blinded conscience in his 
moral life, he becomes villain enough to instigate his obedi- 
ent slave to inflict cruel death on his loving and confiding 
victim ; then he is cowardly enough basely to deny his share 
in the horrible consummation. In this powerfully-conceived 
character we see the havoc which passion, severed from the 
divine part of humanity, and moved by the sensual self, can 
work in the whole moral nature of an individual, and what 
misery and ruin it can bring on all that have any intimate 
relations with him. The utter wretchedness of Hardress 
Cregan's mind, as he approaches the crisis of his fate ; his 
fitful, violent changes of mood and temper, amounting 
almost to paroxysms, especially in his later interviews with 
his mother and Ann Chute — show how well the author, both 
in action and suffering, knew the elements of tragedy that 
lie within the human heart, Danny Mann, the athletic, 
humpbacked servant, is as tragic a character as his master, 
and as powerfully drawn. The author is true to nature and 
art also in his female characters. 



256 Giles' Lectures. 

Ann Chute is a very brilliant creature ; but Eily O'Con- 
nor rises into the very poetry of ideal girlhood ; a sweeter, 
a more beautiful, and more loveable feminine character, ren- 
dered imperfect by the imprudence of the heart, it never 
entered into the imagination of the poet to conceive. This 
character, and many others in the story, give evidence that 
the author was as able a master of the affections as of the 
passions. The Dal}^ Family, both in their joys and sorrows, 
might be placed beside the " Primrose Family." They give 
occasion to very touching pictures of domestic life. The 
Cregan Family, however, consists of characters that are 
more individual, more striking, and more original. The 
comic characters are all very amusing in their humor, and 
very Irish. To point out the number of brilliant descrip- 
tions, and of impressive scenes scattered through the ro- 
mance, would alone require a lecture longer than this. The 
scene of the dying huntsman, who, in giving the last " hal- 
loo " at the command of his drunken master, and, at the 
desire of his drunken guests, gasps forth his soul, is ti'uly 
fearful, and borders on the horrible ; so is the chasing and 
cutting of Danny Mann by the intoxicated squires. But the 
author wished to illustrate the coarse manners of the time ; 
and for that purpose he puts back the period of the romance 
beyond the date of the real transaction on which it was 
founded. The closing interviews of Hardress with his 
mother are dismal and afitecting, and the night scene with 
Danny Mann in prison is both solemn and terrible. One 
scene previously in the story, in which Hardress, drunk 
himself, makes Danny drunk also, when both are caught 
by Ann Chute in their maudlin frolics, has a Hogarthian 
force. He whom the interview of Eily with her uncle, the 
priest, shortly before her murder, will not melt to pity, 
would read all Shakespeare without a sigh, and must be 
poor indeed in moral as well as imaginative destitution. 



Gerald Griffin. 257 

No one can fail to admire the skill by which so extraordi- 
nary a variety of materials as there is in this romance is 
fused into a complete whole, and how every scene, character, 
description, and incident falls necessarily into the drama 
of the story — falls into it in the right time and place, and 
contributes each a needful share to the plot and to the 
catastroi^he. 

Still some critics might make objections ; they might 
adduce instances of melodramatic exaggeration ; but allow- 
ance must be made for Gerald Griffin's youth. I think 
that Ann Chute's saying to her lover, a few days before she is 
to be married to him, "What a dreadful death hanging must 
be !" is an instance of this kind. Though ignorant that Har- 
dress, at the moment, was in mortal fear of such a death, the 
saying is coax'se from a lady, and rather weakens the force 
of tragic impression. Many years ago, on first reading the 
romance, I thought the saying coarse ; and now I learn 
from the published correspondence in the biography, that 
Gerald's sister found fault with something unladylike in Ann 
Chute's character ; and I believe she must have had this 
expression in her mind. I could point out other incon- 
sistencies in Ann's character. I object to the catastrophe. 
I cannot agree that Hardress should get off Avith trans- 
portation, and respectably die of consumption at the end of 
the passage, while Danny Mann, the less guilty culprit, is 
left for the gallows. But Gerald says in a letter, " Jf I hang 
him, the public will never forgive me." I regard this as a 
mistake, except, pei-haps, in reference to the public of senti- 
mental young ladies. John Scanlan was hanged in fact, and 
so should his representative, Hardress Cregan, have been 
hanged in fiction ; then poetical justice and practical justice 
would have corresponded. The real execution, moreover, 
of Scanlan was attended with strange and melancholy cir- 
cumstances that made it solemnly dramatic ; besides, the 



258 Giles' Lectures. 

discrepancy between the fiction and the fact weakens the 
catastrophe and injures the ilkision. 

This extraordinary romance, so dramatic, so full of life, so 
crowded with characters — this romance, that opens the 
inmost chambers of the human heart, and sounds the depths 
of conscience and the passions — had been written, as I 
have mentioned, before the author had completed his twenty- 
fifth year. Ho began to print when he had only a volume 
and a half ready. The printers overtook him in the middle 
of the third volume. It was then a race from day to day 
between him and them to the end ; and this hastily-written 
last moiety of the third volume is the finest portion of the 
book. 

I have, in the course of this lecture, commended the 
moral spirit of Gerald Griffin's writings. My commenda- 
tion is deserved, and with pleasure I declare it. How often 
has one to lament that he is compelled to admire grand 
intellectual power, which only lowers or disheartens him, 
darkens his spirit, or constrains his sympathies ! A sure 
test, it has been often said, as to the good influence of a 
writer, is, that, when we lay aside his book, wo feel better in 
ourselves, and we think better of others. This test, I be- 
lieve, Gerald Griffin can safely stand. 





1)K. DOYLE. 

James Warren Doyle, the son of Jumes Doyle, a respect- 
able farmer near New lloss, in the County of Wexford, was 
born in the autumn of 178(5. His father had died some 
weeks before his birth. His mother, Anne Warren, was a 
second wife. She was of Quaker descent, and a woman of 
determined moral lirmuess. A very characteristic anccdoto 
is told of her. When she came near to the critical period 
wiien she must have medical attendance, but could not 
ullbrd to have a physician from a distance, she walked some 
miles into town, took a cheap lodging, and put herself under 
the care of Dr. James Doyle, a man of considerable local 
eminence in his profession. This is a singular instance of 
sturdy independence, since the doctor was her own step-son, 
and the little stranger whom he introduced into the world 
was, accordingly', his half-brother. When Dr. Doyle was 
eleven years old, he witnessed the most tei'riiic doings of the 
Irish rebellion in 17D8. In lloss and around it that rebel- 
lion raged with its utmost fury. Having on one occasion 
strolled into fields where fighting came on, he narrowly 
escaped from being shot. He very early felt a vocation for 
the priesthood, and began the preparation for it. The 
teaching of childhood he had from his mother ; classical 
education ho received in an Augustinian monastry, where ho 
joined that order ; his academical and clerical training ho 
obtained in the University of Coimbra, Portugal. Dr. Doyle, 



200 Giles' Lectures. 

■\vlien about eighteen years of age, lost his mother, to ^vhonl 
he "was infinitely indebted, to whom, in return, he was infi- 
nitely devoted. He seems, even in youth, to have had largo 
intellectual tastes, and to have cnltivalcd them by large and 
various reading. ]3ut he was not a mere bookworm ; he 
was leady for action, when action was duty. On the inva- 
sion of I'ortugal by the French, young Doyle manfully 
shouldered his musket, and did such service faithfully as ho 
was aiipointed to do. Sir Arthur "Wellesley was cordial to 
him. " I was," says Dr. Doyle, " a sort of nondescript with 
the rank of captain, and an interpreter between the English 
and Portuguese armies I was present at the bat- 
tles of Caldas, liolica, and Vimiero ; I was greatly exposed 
to the lire of the enemy, as I was obliged to keep going to 
and fro with orders and dispatches to the Portuguese gen- 
eral. Ho brought up (leneral Anstruther's division, then 
returning from Sweden, within a comparatively short dis- 
tance of Vimiero. They were in time to take their position 
in the field, and contributed to the success of that great 
da}'." But if young Doyle put on the soldier, he did not put 
oft" the saint. " Before and during the bloody engage- 
ments," he says, at Bolica, Avhere the French lost fifteen 
hundred men, " I was intrenched behind a strong windmill, 
ball-proof, employed in giving spiritual assistance to a num- 
ber of soldiers, who, knowing that I was in priest's orders, 
sought my aid." 

Dr. Doyle returned to Ireland in 1808, to enter on the 
offices of teacher and of priest. He did not found the Roman 
Catholic College of Carlow, but he inspired it with new life, 
and gave it much of the power of his own character. He 
was Professor of Rhetoric. Notwithstanding his foreign 
education, and such a ludicrous pronunciation of English as 
iTsed at first to make the students laugh, he yet imbued 
them with a manly taste. He overcame his own difficulties 



JJr. Doijk. 261 

of expression, and cultivated for himself a stylo of uncom- 
mon clearness, flexibility, purity, and power. Aft(!rwarda 
he became, for a time, Professor of Theology. The severe 
duties of his professorship ho most successfully discharged 
in connection with his labors as a priest. From these hum- 
ble yet exalted functions he was called, in 1819, to be a 
bishop by the united voice of the clergy in the diocese, with 
the applauding consent of the Episcopacy in the kingdom, 
and with the imanimous approval of tJie authorities in Rome. 
He was then not three months beyond thirty years of age. 
He ruled his diocese with the force of a commanding and 
controlling mind, but also with the heart of a gentle, chari- 
table, hospitable Christian pastor. Without neglecting in 
the least degree the greatest of his sacerdotal toils, he en- 
tered with abundant zeal into the politics which vitally con- 
cerned his country and his creed. A public writer of such 
special political ability as J. K. L. had not appeared since 
the days of Junius. Dr. Doyle died on the 15th of June, in 
the forty-eighth year of his age. As in the case of many 
oth(!r eminent men, all sorts of absurd stories were circu- 
lated regarding the state of mind in which he died. His 
political and polemical opponents would not l(3t his remains 
bo at peace, Home asserted that he died an inlidel. Others, 
softening the fact, but not the scandal, reported that he 
refused the last rites of his Church. There were persons 
who sturdily maintained that he died a Protestant. Al- 
though there were more than a jury of eye-witnesses, male 
and female, lay and clerical, who knew the falsehood of 
these statements, and most solemnly denied their truth, 
zealots still continued to affirm them, and even to write bad 
and bulky pamphlets to prove them. But what will not 
zealots do for any creed or any cause ? They are the blind, 
that will not see the light, shine it ever so clearly ; they 
voluntarily make themselves blind, that they may not see 



262 Giles' Lectures. 

the light ; they arc the deaf, that stuff their own ears to 
shut out heariug, and then insist that the sound of a trumpet 
is Hke the color of a rose. They have faith in nothing but 
their own illusions ; they take their own narrow prejudices 
for universal and eternal facts ; and when realities are 
asserted in contradiction to their prejudices, they hate the 
realities, and they hafe those who assert them. They arc in 
the universe, by their own passionate pervcrseness, infinite 
blunderers ; as the ignorant confound the meanings of shall 
and will, zealots purposely reverse them, and, shouting deli- 
ance to everlasting truth, exclaim, "We ^vill be drowned, 
and no veracity shall save us." 

The matter of fact in the case before us is that the Et. 
E,ev. Dr. Doyle died simply as a Christian, and as a Roman 
Catholic bishop. He died in the creed in which he was 
educated, to which he had devoted his life and labors ; 
which he had preached so eloquently ; which he had so 
ably defended. He died surrounded by its ministers ; he died 
with such faith and hope in God, in Jesus, in immortality, 
as any Christian feels to be the blessedness of the death-bed. 
There was in the nature of Dr. Doyle a strange combination 
of the Stoic and the Christian. When very near to death, 
he was asked by his Vicar-General if he did not wish to live 
longer. "About my death or recovery," said he, "I feel 
perfectly indifferent. I came into the world without any 
exercise of my own will, and it is only fitting that I should 
leave it in the same manner. I never knew any one who 
wished to live longer in order to do a great deal of good, 
who did not do a great deal of harm. All my hopes are in 
the mercies of God. Am I not as near them now as if I 
were to remain forty years longer on earth?" 

If I were to use only a single word to indicate the pre- 
dominating element in the character of Bishop Doyle, that 
word would be slmvj/h. Strength was the ruling quality 



Dr. Doijic. 20:J 

of bis inward and bis outward bfe — strength of motive, 
strength of principle, strength of purpose. Ho always 
seemed to have a powerful conception of the reason and lli(3 
right of whatever he did or proposed to do ; and having 
this conception, his persistence and perseverance in giving 
it reality, or in sustaining the reality which involved it, were 
heroic and invinci])lc. Once that his end was determined, 
ho shrank from no labor, no sacrifice, no pain, suilcring, 
loss, or danger, to reach it ; but yet to reach it by wortliy 
means. The strength of Dr. Doybj's character appears 
from whatever direction we consider it. It appears in liis 
private and public life ; it appears in his conduct as child, 
relative, friend, opponent; as pupil, student, teacher; as 
priest and prelate ; as speaker and writer ; as patriot and 
politician ; and this int(!grity of moral force gave a most 
compact unity to the whole man. But moi-al iurce corre- 
sponded with an e<|ual degree of intellectual force ; and in 
such correspondence was the complet(!ness of its power. 
There are men whose conscience is beyond suspicion, one 
iiiiglit almost say Ixiyimd temptation, who yet, from want of 
mental balance, fail in moral wisdom, and do not rise to tlio 
Ijiglier order of virtues. The very source of their excel- 
lence is also, in a certaiii sense, the source of their weak- 
ness ; so they become obstinate, or bigoted, or intolerant, or 
fanatical, or contentious, or meddlesome, or visionary. Pros- 
trated under a mistaken sense of obligation, or pulled up 
with an overbearing zeal, they often only irritate when tliey 
mean to improve, and, with the best intentions, are most 
miscliievous in their acitions. A man of weak understand- 
ing may be a good man ; but his goodness should be active 
humbly within the sphere of his capacity, in mind as in 
means. To be a great man as well as a good man, there 
must be a stro]ig undcn-standing ; and this J)r. Doyle pos- 
Bctsacd. This, indeed, was his most prominent mental i'ae- 



264 Giles' Lectures. 

ulty. Not deficient in imagination, in feeling, or in the 
sense of beautj', lie was behind no man of his day in the 
vigor of his intellect. The force which this, united with 
conscience, gave to his character — if not modified by human 
sympathy and softened by Christian graces — might have 
become stern and unrelenting rigor. On occasions, Dr. 
Doyle approached the limit of a charitable severity. 

No individual character consists of a single and simple 
principle ; but that I have stated the ruling one in- the 
character of Dr. Doyle will, I think, be confirmed by such 
other qualities of his moral nature as my time will allow 
me to designate. He was of undaunted courage — physical 
as well as moral. I have already mentioned how manfully 
ho shouldered his musket, under Wellington, when the 
French invaded Portugal. Ho, an ecclesiastical student, 
was ready for strife, when duty told him that the cause was 
just. Such examples as his are of great 'value. They clear 
the clerical profession from the accusation of having refuge 
in more than a womanly security from danger; and one of 
the noblest lessons which our own sad war has taught us is 
written on the bloody graves to which our brave clergymen, 
of all creeds, have been sent, in their noble zeal for the dis- 
charge of their obligations as citizens and as priests. This 
is as it should be. The men who would inspire faith in 
another -world must show us that they are without fear in 
this world. We must revere those who would instruct us ; 
and neither in respect to the present world nor the future 
can we listen with attention or edification to a craven. How 
can we think that the man who trembles at the sound of a 
pistol believes in immortality? How can we think that the 
man who quails before the danger of losing bodil}^ life be- 
lieves in the eternal reality of spiritual life? It is well, 
therefore, even for the sake of moral influence, that our 
clergy should give the world assurance that they are men. 



Dr. Doyle. 265 

They have boldly given such assurance. I have myself 
nevei' assented to the doctrines of the Peace Society ; I 
have not scoffed or laughed at them; but, taking men as 
they are, and as they are likely to be, I had no faith in 
these doctrines. I have listened to preachers whose words 
were soft and sweet — were like to those of Christian girl- 
hood, meek and lowly — indeed, as oj)posite to war as milk 
and honey are to gunpowder and cannon-shot. I have 
lived to hear such voices shrill like the sounds of trumpets, 
and their exhortations as calls to battle ; to see priestly bold- 
ness as that of mighty captains ; pi-iestly death as that of 
martyrs ; and I have said to myself, " Well done, grand 
souls ! the stuff of manly greatness was in you, and saint- 
hood Avas but the sanctification of heroism." Dr. Doyle 
eloquently vindicated the profession of arms, and declared 
that, had he not been called to a higher, arms would have 
been his own profession. " From my earliest youth," he 
says, " fear has been a feeling utterly unknown to me. I 
know not what it is, and, unless from the knowledge one 
gathers from common report, I know not what it is like." 

Perliaj)s this explains his power as a polemic. And yet 
he says, " I dislike controversy." This great courage of his 
was displayed on several momentous occasions ; as, for in- 
stance, in his several examinations before the High Court of 
Parliament. To stand before the choice men of the British 
Lords and Commons requires not only no ordinary intelli- 
gence, but no ordinary firmness. Very powerful men have 
broken down in the trial, and utterly disappointed the 
statesmen who summoned them as witnesses. . On the con- 
trary, Dr. Doyle did not tremble Ijefore the elect wisdom of 
the British empire. He was calm and fearless in the midst 
of most formidable opponents — for a great number of hia 
Parliamentary questioners took the position of antagonists. 
Dr. Doyle in very important instances stood against O'Con- 

12 



266 Giles' Lectures. 

nell. At what risk of popularity he did this, we learn from 
himself. Reqiiested, in a special case, to resist O'Connell, 
" If I should do so," he replied, " the people of my own 
household would desert me." Nor did he shun the bodily 
danger which, even among portions of his own people, at 
one time seemed to threaten the most sacred personages. 
When not only landlords, land-jobbers, magistrates, consta- 
bles, informers, tithe-proctors, process-servers, sherifis, attor- 
neys, and all such, were murdered, but even when priests 
themselves were assassinated. Dr. Doyle ventured into the 
most disturbed districts, and spoke to assemblies of fierce 
and reckless men, with bold and indignant eloquence. This 
courageous spirit Dr. Doyle evinced in siieaking of Ireland 
itself. There are two conditions in civilized society in which 
national criticism, from within or from without, will not be 
tolerated. One is, when the country is young, strong, pros- 
perous, full of energy, full of hope. Its fortune is the 
future, its possession is the innneasurablo. Ideas take the 
place of experience. National criticism, in any form — such 
as satire, ridicule, caricature, or indignant expostulation — 
becomes a risk that tlio boldest will not undertake ; or 
which, if ventured on, soon drives the critics to silence or 
despaii*. The individual must join the chorus of the coun- 
try, or modestly hold his peace. The other is, when the 
country is old; when it has lost its independence, and when 
its glory is in the past. The national atTection is then in its 
traditions, and patriotism is more a sentiment of memory 
than of aspiration. Such a country has been Ireland. It is 
very sensitive. It holds closely, like a miser, all its hoarded 
wealth of national and proud recollections. Because impov- 
erished in the present, it is all the more jealous of the past. 
And this treasure of national emotion is kept with the most 
watchful care in every genuinely Irish heart, from that of 
the laborer to that of the lord. It is difficult, therefore, to 



Dr. Doyle. 267 

touch this scnsibihty, however innocently, without giving 
mortal olleuce. In the degree that the Irish have suliered 
pain, poverty, and historical humiliation, they bitterly resent 
even kindly strictures on their character or annals. Yet Dr. 
Doyle, in writing to a friend, says of Ireland : " Our origin 
and early possession of letters, and consequently of a cer- 
tain degree of civilization, are, I think, points settled ; but I 
cannot hide from myself that, though wo possessed at cer- 
tain periods a relative superiority over other countries, we 
never attained eminence as a nation." He then goes o)i to 
show how people Avith fewer advantages than the ancient 
Irish organized solid governments and secured their inde- 
pendence. 

The strength of mind and of character which gives a man 
courage and candor saves him from being a bigot, and gives 
him a generous liberality of spirit. A zealous man is not 
necessarily a bigot. We have no right to complain of the 
scrupulousness, of the steadfastness, with which a man ad- 
heres to his creed, or of his devotion to the duties which it 
imposes, so long as he is faithful to social courtesies and to 
all natural and divine charities. It is his want of these, and 
not his belief, that makes him a bigot. The fact is, that, at 
least in this jjeriod of Christendom, bigotry is often more in 
the blood than in belief ; more a thing of temper than of 
theology. No man could be more firmly attached to his 
Church than was Dr. Doyle ; but this attachment interfered 
with no honorable affection, with no kindliness of humanity. 
Some of his niost lovingly eloquent letters are to a lady Avho 
not only left the Roman Catholic religion, but became an 
enthusiastic opponent of it. She always had his friendship, 
and was ever welcome to his presence and to his house. 
" From my infancy," he says, " I never felt a dislike to any 
man on account of his religion. I have long had, among 
my most early and intimate friends, and still have, members 



268 Giles' Lectures. 

of tliG Established Church and other Protestant communi- 
ties, in whom I confide and whom I love as much as I do 
any people upon earth ; and if I had to choose a friend to 
whom I would confide my life or my honor, whether among 
people high in station or low, I should, at least among those 
high in station, prefer some of my Protestant friends to any 
others in the world." This was said, not in private corre- 
spondence or conversation, but before the assembled Com- 
mons of the British nation. Being told how ill an opinion 
the clergy of the Established Church had of him, he thus 
wrote : " They are mistaken. I hate their excessive Es- 
tablishment ; yet I respect them generally as a class 

of men, eminent many of them for their domestic virtues as 
well as for their literary acquirements." He condemned as 
forcibly as any man could, all temporal penalties and pun- 
ishments in matters of religion. He gives up to reprobation 
all those who inflicted them and all those who would counsel 
their infliction, whether in Protestant or Roman Catholic 
States. 

He was a strict man in all the relations of his authority. 
He Avas strict as a professor with his pupils. He was strict 
as a bishop with his priests. Ho forbade them to go to 
theatres, to attend races, to enter into field-sports, or to 
engage in secular employments or pursuits. He would 
not allow a priest to farm more than fourteen acres of land. 
He was jealous for the dignity of the priestly character even 
in externals. He was neat in his own dress, and he was 
anxious that his clergy should be so in theirs. He disliked 
a sloven or a clown in the priesthood. He used stimulants 
•very slightly; he did not actually forbid them to priests, but 
he was extremely averse to the use of ardent spirits. When 
dying, a niece of his came to see him, and insisted that he 
should take some claret ; but the only bottle that was in 
the house was one which she herself had brought. He was 



Br. Doyle. 269 

a strict casuist. The Professor of Etbics in Maynooth 
maintained that an insolvent debtor, when legally dis- 
charged, was not morally bound, in future prosperit}', to 
pay his creditors. Dr. Doyle opposed this doctrine in an 
able refutation, and showed that an honest debt was a 
perpetual obligation, from Avhich no really honest man felt 
himself morally relieved, except by inability to pay it. But 
however strict the Bishop was with others, he was strictest 
of all with himself. He would accept no gifts. "They 
corrupt," he said, " the heart, abase the mind, and pervert 
the conscience." He was offered jmtronage for his friends 
by the Irish Government ; but he would have none of it. 
" My kingdom," he replied, " is not of this world. I have 
no link to bind me to it." A lady had forced on him the 
present of a carriage, but only in a single instance did he 
ever enter it. " Whatever," he observes, "peoi^le may say 
of me, they shall never have it to say that I rode in my 
carriage." "I have not," he writes to a friend, "a coat to 
my back, not a shoe to my foot, and yet you talk of 

carriages Coach indeed ! I have not even a horse; 

for my horse became broken-winded, and is now at cure — 
so that, with the exception of those animals found in cellars, 
my whole stock of four-footed creatures consists of a bor- 
rowed donkey, which, however, I do not ride." Bishop 
though he was, he writes to a friend, " I have been trying 
to make up the price of a new pair of shoes." He was 
happy through life in this honorable poverty. When a pro- 
fessor in Carlow College, in 1814, he writes to one of his 
family, "I have little to say; if good health, a good fireside, 
plenty of labor, plenty of money, and a good name be ad- 
vantages, I enjoy them to the fullest extent." Yet his salary 
was at the utmost only iE25 a j'car. His charity was unfail- 
ing, and his hospitality most generous — although, as a. 
bishop, he was comparatively as poor as when he had been 



270 Giles' Lectures* 

only a professor. He constantly kept a stock of bread and 
ale on hand for the refreshment of the poor. At Christmas 
he had oxen killed, and with beef he distributed clothing and 
blankets. Yet earnest preacher as Dr. Doyle was of per- 
sonal beneficence, and high example as he was in the 
practice of it, he Avas, at the same time, the most strenuous 
advocate of a legal provision for the jDOor. Whether for 
good or evil, the poor-law system of Ireland is in a great 
measui'e owing to Dr. Doyle. Both good and evil belong to 
the system in Ireland, as to all human institutions every- 
where ; but whether the good overbalances the evil in the 
poor-laws in Ireland I cannot venture to say; but the state 
of the country and of the poor seemed imperatively then to 
demand some method of legally providing for the destitute. 
And this was the general import of Dr. Doyle's arguments. 
Whatever vices or abuses have entered into the adminis- 
tration of the Irish poor-laws, the institution of them 
became inevitable. Owing to extensive absenteeism among 
the owners of Irish estates, and the inaccessibility to those 
who remained at home — for beggars were seldom allowed to 
enter even their outermost gates — the whole burden of pau- 
perism was borne by the middle classes, and by classes 
themselves on the verge of pauperism, or even within it. It 
was right that property should not be left thus free ; if it 
did not do its duty voluntarily, it was right that it should be 
forced to do it. And yet it may be questioned whether the 
penalty it paid at last was not too stern. Lordly mansions 
became poor-houses, and some owners of such mansions 
were afterwards among the pauper inmates of them. 

It was not Christmas alone that Dr. Doyle consecrated by 
special bounty to the poor ; he commemorated other festi- 
vals in the same manner. He was a cheerful giver, and a 
gentle one. To whomsoever he might be severe, he was to 
the destitute as meek in manner as he was merciful in 



Dr. Doyle. 271 

action. He did not mock their poverty by insult or by 
rudeness ; and whether blameless or otherwise, it was a 
claim to his respect as well as pity. He did not relieve with 
the hand and wound with the lips. He only desired to 
know that the want was real, and then he ministered to it 
to the extent of his means. 

Nor was his compassion to the wants of the body aloi>e ; 
it extended still more deeply to the woes of the soul. Any 
soul burdened with grief, doubt, or sin had free access to 
him ; its complaint was heard ; such counsel or consolation 
as its case needed was given ; and it did not matter whether 
the soul occupied the most lofty station in society, or the 
most lowly. When occupied by his episcopal duties, busy 
in the building of a cathedral, immersed in all sorts of con- 
troversies — when his pen was guiding the political opinions 
of millions, and his fame filled Europe — he was yet as 
laborious in the confessional as the humblest of his curates ; 
nay, if a ragged beggar came to him specially, in distress of 
conscience, the Bishop as wiUingly gave him audience as he 
would in like case have given it to a mighty prince. 

Strict man though he was, all the afi"ections were powerful 
in his noble nature. He loved his kindred with all the 
tenderness of family instinct ; he loved his friends with a 
generous and cordial confidence ; he loved his enemies — if 
enemies he had — with Christian charitj^; he loved humanity 
with a fullness of regard which excluded no man from his 
pity or esteem ; and he loved his country with the utmost 
passion of a patriot. Strict though the Bishop was, priests 
would sometimes " poke fun " at him. At a certain visita- 
tion, he rebuked a clergyman for irregularities in his parish. 
" I was much concerned," said he, " to observe, on this day, 
two of your parishioners fighting like a brace of bull-dogs." 
" My Lord," replied the priest, " the two men whom you 
observed boxing to-day were tailors from Carlow ; and your 



272 Giles' Lectures. 

Lordslaip will admit that, if you could effect no reformation 
in tlieir lives at Carlow, it is unreasonable to expect that I 
could do so here, where they are merely birds of passage." 
"Never did any Christian pastor," writes Thackeray, in his 
Irish Sketch-Book, referring to Dr. Doyle, " merit the affec- 
tion of his flock more than that great and high-minded man. 
He was the best champion the Catholic Church and cause 
ever had in Ireland — in learning, and admirable kindness, 
and virtue, the best example to the clergy of his religion; and 
if the country is now filled with schools, where the humblest 
j)easant in it can have the benefit of a liberal and wholesome 
education, it owes this great boon mainly to his noble ex- 
ertions and to the noble spirit which they awakened." 

I cannot discuss at much length the genius of Dr. 
Doyle. The most powerful faculty in it was his vigorous 
understanding. All the other faculties were in subordina- 
tion to this. Intellect ruled his mind with as rigorous a 
discipline as he himself ruled his diocese. He was not 
speculative, soaring, or imaginative ; he was mostly on the 
solid ground, close to his subject ; and in public affairs he 
was always more the statesman than the philosopher. He 
was a great logician ; but logic was his servant, not his 
lord. The art had become so natural to him, was so iden- 
tical with the action of his thought, that, as a good speaker 
or writer does with the rules of grammar, being in full pos- 
session of the spirit, he threw away the forms. It was the 
same with rhetoric. He had thoroughly studied it, as the 
art of expression ; but when he had gained power in the 
spirit of expression, he cared nothing for the technicalities. 
Perhaps no writer was ever more free from stiffness or man- 
nerism than Dr. Doyle. This freedom is to be obtained, 
not only by ability, but by an instinct for the right use of 
words, trained by exercise and experience. It is also aided 
by wide conversation with men, with real life, and with his- 



Dr. Doyle. 273 

tory. Best of all, it is cultivated by having interest tliat 
heartily engage the mind, and become the stimulants of ac- 
tion. Then language is used unconsciously; it is a medium 
through which thought passes on to its end, without stop- 
ping to examine curiously the nature of the way, A tailor 
is not at ease in his clothes, because his attention is always 
occupied in making clothes. A dancing-master — the in- 
structor of others in graceful movement — is usually himself, 
away from his lessons, awkward and ungainly, because his 
attention dwells on modes of movement. A professional 
elocutionist, who teaches others to speak and read — and 
teaches them successfully — is seldom himself a good speaker 
or reader, because his attention is absorbed in the processes 
of speaking and reading. And we know of learned authors 
on the English language who themselves write execrable 
English. This, too, may be because their attention is fixed 
on the construction of the language, instead of their energies 
being engaged in the use of it, in literatue or life. Dr. 
Doyle spoke and wrote freely and forcibly, because his 
attention was not on speaking or writing, but on the objects 
which he hoped by speaking and writing to accomphsh. He 
was a great master of statement and of argument — clear and 
strong in both. He was always practical and to the point. 
So little was he given to all that was extraneous to his topic, 
in embellishment, sentiment, or thought, that. Irishman 
though he was to the utmost, his style seemed to have been 
formed rather by the severest culture of England than by 
the impulsive culture of his own country. He was not, in 
the poetic sense, imaginative ; but he had passion and con- 
viction which raised his thinking into eloquence — often in- 
dignant, often persuasive, often pathetic. He had fancy 
which could sharpen his thinking into wit ; he had, when 
morally provoked, an energy of scorn that turned his think- 
inof into barbs of sarcasm, which he hurled with such direct- 



274 Giles^ Lectures. 

ness that they never missed their aim, and with such force 
that, though the wounds they inflicted might i:)ossibly be 
healed, they could never be forgotten. His intellect was 
aided by an enormous memory. " My memory," said Dr. 
Doyle to a friend, " is singularly tenacious. I never read an 
able argument, from the earliest period of my life to this 
hour, that is not distinctly inscribed on the tablet of my 
mind ; and I protest I think, that, were it necessary, I could 
take my oath of the precise page whereon any remarkable 
theological opinion is recorded." This is like Niebuhr, who 
thought that his health was on the decline when his memory 
required the slightest effort ; for the normal state of that 
memory seemed to be rather the intuition of a present con- 
sciousness than the recalling of a past consciousness, so easy 
was its action. 

Able as Dr. Doyle was in his writings, his greatest mental 
triumphs were before the Houses of Parliament. In 1825 
he was examined before committees of the Commons and 
of the Lords, in relation to the question of Catholic Emanci- 
pation. In 1830 he was examined before a committee of the 
Commons, in relation to a legal provision for the poor. In 
1832 he was examined before committees of the Commons 
and of the Lords, in relation to the question of tithes. His 
answers in the first examination would form a folio of 
divinitj' ; in the second, a body of social science ; and in the 
third, a treatise on Church History and Ecclesiastical Antiq- 
uities. The questions put to him in the second examination 
amounted to 4G8, and his replies often extended to disquisi- 
tions. In the first examination, he was warned by a friend 
that it would be entirely theological, the questions being 
prepared by the ablest divines from Oxford and Cambridge. 
The friend hoped that he was supplied with such works for 
consultation as would enable him to go safely through this 
ordeal. The Bishoi^ assured his friend that he brought no 



Dr. Doyle. 275 

book with him but his Breviary. It was as his friend fore- 
told it would be, a comprehensive, searching, polemical, 
theological examination. But the Doctor had, as we have 
seen, a vast memory ; he was not only a most learned priest, 
but also a most learned lawj'er ; he had knowledge enough 
to confute his questioners, and when he pleased he had art 
enough to confound them. He was offered books in abun- 
dance, but he had little need of them, and he little used them. 
He says himself of this examination : " I found it easier to 
answer the bishops than the lords." His success delighted 
his friends, and gained admiration from even his opponents. 
Stanle}', one of the most determined of these, paid the 
highest tribute to the talents of Dr. Doyle. An eminent 
peer declared that " Dr. Doyle as far surpassed O'Connell as 
O'Connell surpassed other men." "Well, Duke," observed 
another peer, who met Wellington as he was leaving the 
committee-room, "are you examining Dx'. Doyle ?" "No," 
said his Grace, dryly, "Dr. Doyle is examining us." It has 
been said that the impression of this examination on the 
Duke's mind tended considerably towards his ultimate treat- 
ment of the Catholic question. "Who is there," says the 
Morning Chronicle, "of the Established clergy, either of 
England, Ireland, or Scotland, for instance, to compare with 
Dr. Doyle? Compare his evidence before the Poor-Law 
Committee with that of Dr. Chalmers, for instance, and the 
superiority appears immense." 

Dr. Doyle's power of labor was incredible ; and yet his 
readiness and versatility were equal to his power. He ap- 
peared before these committees day after da}^ and remained 
before them several hours at a time. He had to bo pre- 
pared to meet all sorts of questions, on all sorts of subjects, 
and to answer them on the moment. He not only answered 
them, but he answered them with a surplus wealth of knowl- 
edge. His mental treasury and his physical force seemed 



li7G Giles' Lcdurcx. 

alike inexhaustible, and at the close of each day's toil his 
strength seemed as unabated as it had been at the begin- 
ning. The members of the committee were arranged in the 
form of a horse-shoe. Dr. Doyle stood or sat within the 
hollow space. When excited, he arose, and often pursued 
a long and connected oration, which so chained the atten- 
tion of his auditory that he was rarely interrupted. 

His whole life was full of labor. He was not only strict 
in the duties of his office, but he enlarged those that were 
ordinary, and created others that were extraordinary. He 
was never without some public or patriotic demand that 
taxed his talents and his time. His fame made him a 
marked man for all sorts of attacks. He kept up a most 
extensive correspondence, politicfil, ecclesiastical, and with 
his family and his friends. If we wonder that a man of such 
surprising abilities left no single gi-eat work, we must take 
these circumstances into account, and we must also remem- 
ber the early age at which Dr. Doyle died. If the topics on 
which he wrote were temporary in duration, in the im- 
portance of consequences they had an everlasting interest. 
He so regarded and so treated them. But though the occa- 
sions which called forth his genius have passed away, not so 
his fame. That is immortal ; and while Ireland cherishes 
love, gratitude, or admiration for the memory of those who 
have been devoted to her good, and have shed glory on her 
name, James AVarron Doyle will be ranked among the 
brightest of her minds and among the greatest of her sons. 

I shall not be able to expatiate on the times ot Dr. Doyle 
with the fullness which I had originally intended. They 
were times full of agitations. I shall review some of the 
most prominent ; such as the collective polemical exertions 
for Protestantizing the Catholics ; the struggle of the Catho- 
lics for political emancipation ; and, lastly, their opposition 
to tithes. 



/;/•. Daiili'. 277 

I do not impeach ilio inoiivcs of llioRe who combiiuul in 
the attempt to iiiiiko Irelaml a Protestant country. Clirisli- 
anity is essentially a proselytizing religion. It is not out of 
order that modilications of it have the same spirit, and of 
this spirit Protestantism has inherited an ample portion. 
Not only Churches, b\it every individual of strong and sin- 
cere convictions, should desire to make others partakers of 
them. But lie must bo amenable to all the laws of charity, 
courtesy, and reason, even when ho believes that these con- 
victions are needful to man's temijoral and (itei-nal wcUarc!. 
No duty calls on him to be obtrusive or aggressive ; to use 
arts which integrity does not sanction, even for tliis solemn 
purpose ; he is not justilied in a!)using powcu" for it, or in 
taking unfair advantage of opportunities, or in employing 
the inlluonce of threats, [iromises, or favors. Not only does 
duty not r('([nire sui^h endeavors, it indignantly forbids 
them. I will not say that i)olicy excited this spiritual cru- 
sade against the Catholics ; but if it succeeded, it would 
have admirably served jiolicy. Some of the most active in 
the crusade were clergy of the ]<jstablishod Church. Now as 
this Church in Ireland was, and still indeed is, but the 
Church of a few, its claim to a national endovvnieiil, and a 
revenue paid by a vast majority who dc^nied its doclrines 
and rejected its services, seemed, even to not a few of its 
own members, grossly unjust. But could this vast majority 
be converted to the Eslablishnieni:, tluMi, as tius C!lwire]i of 
the nation not only in name, but in reality, its claim Avould 
have a moral as well as a legal validity. If success came 
not, the failure arose from no want of zeal, energy, or p(!i'se- 
vcrance. The apostleship includ(;d all orders of workers, 
lay and clerical, from pcMU's and bishops to tract-distributei's 
and Bible-r(>aders ; from (he (;ount(!SS of the castle to the 
mistress of the village school. Some temporary results 
were obtained ; a seed here and there seemed to take root ; 



278 Giles' Lectures. 

it grew quickl}', and as quickly withered. "VVliere an abun- 
dant harvest had been hoped for, behold, all Avas barren. 
The relapsed converts even mocked those whom they had 
deceived, and laughed at the folly of their learned dupes. 
How success could have been expected otherwise than by 
miracle is to us a marvel. The Catholic Irish have intensely 
the religious temperament, and they have been always ar- 
dently attached to the Church of Rome. This attachment in 
itself it would be inconceivably difficult to overcome. But 
Avhen we connect it with the circumstances and history of 
the Catholic Irish, nothing in all the wildness of a dream 
seems so unreal as those attempts to make them Protest- 
ants. The Irish are a people susceptible of the most vivid 
impressions of the present, and have far-reaching and tena- 
cious memories of the past. How would this present and 
this past influence them towards Protestantism ? The lauds 
which their forefathers owned, they saw Protestants living 
on as lords, while they toiled on them as serfs — and, indeed, 
rejoiced when they got leave to toil. The castles which 
their ancestors held they saw monuments of humiliating 
ruin, and in such of them as still retained their olden splen- 
dor, Protestants were the inhabitants. The grand cathe- 
drals and abbeys, which had once beautilied the country, 
they saw given to the owls and to the bats ; and the princely 
incomes which had belonged to them they saw go into the 
coffers of a Protestant hierarchy. They remembered that 
the predecessors of the priests, from whom the preachers 
sought to win them, had been hunted like wild beasts by 
Protestant persecution. They remembered that the laws 
which deprived them of all inheritance on their native soil, 
of all right to property, that the laws which deprived their 
ancestors of natural domestic rights, which deprived Catho- 
lic children of education, and encouraged them to violate 
the most sacred of liuraan instincts — they remembered that 



JJr. Doyle. 279 

all iliese were Protestant laws. Nay, more, the missionaries 
wlio expected the Catholic Irish to become Protestants 
acted — as far as the spirit of the age allowed — in the spirit 
of those laws. They held up the elergy of the people to 
unmitigated odium, and exhausted on them the whole 
vocabulary of denimciation and contempt. They rudely 
scorned all the beliefs and feelings which the people held 
as the most consecrated in the inmost sanctuaries of their 
religious affections. Beyond this, these missionaries were 
the most virulent opponents against the struggles of the 
people for the enjoyment of national.and civic rights. They 
were zealous/b?' the emancipation of the West Indian Negro, 
and equally zealous againd the emancipation of the Irish 
Catholic ; yet these were the men who thought that they 
had divinely assigned to them the duty, and the gifts, and 
the fitness to turn a rusty Irish Catholic into a brightly- 
plated Brummagem Protestant. 

The part which Dr. Doyle took in these controversies was 
seldom purely theological. His polemics were usually inci- 
dental to his patriotism, and the defence of his Church 
was generally connected with that of the civil claims of its 
members. We shall select but one opponent with whom ho 
powerfully grap2)lcd — we mean Archbishop Magee, author 
of a celebrated work on the Atonement. A few remarks on 
the Archbishop and his work may interest our readers. Ho 
was a native of Enniskillen, the son of a respectable but 
reduced merchant, and was born about 17C4. He was 
educated at the expense of a wealthy relative. He entered 
Trinity College, Dublin, when he was only lifteen, and had for 
fellow-students Plunket and Thomas Addis Emmet. He 
was diligent in study and cheerful in temper ; he loved the 
society of maidens, and the pursuit of mathematics ; he had 
extraordinary skill in dancing and diaphantines. He ob- 
tained a fellowship, and, considering the enormous amount 



280 Giles' Lectures. 

of learning and science demanded in the Dublin University 
in the candidate for such an office, the success of a young 
man in gaining it gave him deservedly very high distinction. 
He entered into orders, and, in spite of the law which 
enjoined celibacy on the fellows, and which he was sworn to 
observe, he married. In early life, he was a radical — a hater 
of England and an opponent of the Union. He was Irish of 
the Irish. Change of conviction, and with it change of 
colors, came in time. Poor and outcast Liberalism gave 
place to prosperous and exultant Toryism, and rebellious 
green bloomed into loyal orange. Magee became Dean of 
Cork, and, in due season, Archbishop of Dublin. Theologi- 
cal conversion, even with the greatest abilities, is seldom so 
favorable to ambition as political conversion. Kirwin, the 
most eloquent of preachers, of whom Grattafi said, that " he 
awoke the slumbers of the Irish pulpit, and exhausted the 
oil of life in feeding the lamp of charity," changed his reli- 
gion, and died in a wretched deanery. Magee changed his 
poUtics, and died in a wealthy archbishopric. 

Such was the disputant with whom Dr. Doyle dared to 
enter the lists ; and here was the occasion. In a charge to 
his clergy, the Archbishop said : " My reverend brethren, 
we are hemmed in by two opposite descriptions of professing 
Christians — the one possessing a Church without what we call 
a Religion, and the other possessing a Religion without what 
we can call a Church." " And we, my reverend brethren," 
he might have added, " have a Church in Ireland without 
having what we can call a People ; but in compensation, my 
reverend brethren, though others feed the sheep, we shear 
them." The Church without a Religion was intended for the 
Roman Catholics ; the Religion without a Church, for the 
Dissenters. Between these two the venerable Establish- 
ment, that was both a Church and a Religion suffered 
grievous persecution, and had to bear "heavy blows and 



Dr. Doyle. 281 

great discouragements." The phrase here quoted from the 
Archbishoji's charge, and the habit of using such phrases, 
caused him to be styled " the antithetical Magce." Dr. Doyle 
took up his own side of the antithesis, and with such effect 
as must have taught the Archbishop the extreme danger 
of pointed sentences, which may be made to wound the 
author more deeply than those at whom they are aimed. A 
very favorite mode in those days, among lloman Catholic 
polemics, in dealing with their opponents of orthodox Prot- 
estant Churches, Avas to vindicate, on the grounds of indivi- 
dual conscience and of private interj)retation, the religious 
claims of Unitarians. This mode of argument was often 
very annoying and perplexing to those against whom it was 
used. Dr. Doyle used it with stunning energy against Dr. 
Magee. "Are not Socinians," he wrote, "men of sound 
judgment ? Have they not, according to your rule, a right 
— nay, are they not obliged — to follow the dictate of that 
judgment in preference to all authority on earth ? And yet 
you exclude them from the kingdom of God because, in the 
exercise of their judgment, or in what you consider the dis- 
charge of their duty, they differ in opinion from yourself. 
Your opinion of them, if judged by your own principles, is 
unjust, uncharitable, and unreasonable." 

Dr. Doyle went hand in hand with O'Connell during the 
last great struggle for Catholic Emancipation. His influence 
was very efficient in promoting O'Connell's election for 
Clare, which was the decisive blow that brought the Tory 
statesmen to their senses. The pen of Dr. Doyle was as 
powerful in its way as the tongue of O'Connell. Dr. Doyle 
had influence over classes which O'Connell did not reach. 
Dr. Doyle's writings were read by aristocratic and educated 
men of all parties — men who would not listen to O'Connell, 
and whom, if they would, O'Connell could not convince. 
O'Connell had the ears and hearts of the masses ; Dr. Doyle 



282 Giles' Lectures. 

had the attention and thoughts of the select. He had many 
personal acquaintances among the most powerful and intel- 
lectual of the aristocratic politicians. Dr. Doyle was himself 
by nature aristocratic ; O'Connell was democratic in temper, 
in talents, and by his training- and experience among the 
people in their assembled multitudes. Dr. Doyle's splendid 
evidence and eloquence before the leading men of the empire 
— loi'ds, bishops, commons — gave authority to his words of 
counsel, of remonstrance, of history, of prophecy, which the 
words of an individual have rarely had in the concerns 
of mighty states. 

I can only glance at the agitation against tithes, and a 
glance is all that is needed. 

Tithes, even in the Church of England, have always been 
the most unpopular -of legal imposts. Yet a large mass of 
the English people belong- to the Church, and among them 
are the wealthiest portion of the nation. What must tithes 
have, then, been in Ireland, where the mass of the popu- 
lation are not only not of the Established Church, but 
thoroughly and passionately opposed to it, and where, more- 
over, the tithes weighed most heavily on the struggling- and 
the poor ! I enter in no wise into the rationale or logic 
of the legal or the voluntary system of supporting religious 
institutions ; I pass by all speculative arguments for tithes 
or against them. I confine myself to broad and palpable 
facts. On the face of the matter, it does seem unreasonable 
and unjust to force a man to pay for the administration of a 
religion which his conscience and conviction reject. Even 
among Protestant sects, it appears hardly fair to make all 
the sects except one support that one. But among Prot- 
estant sects there are only differences ; Roman Catholics are 
opposed to'aU forms of Protestantism, but of aU forms of 
Protestantism in Ireland, the Church form was, perhaps, the 
most unpopular. To it belonged the aristocracy, with which, 



Dr. Doyle. 283 

rightly or wrongly, the Roman Catholic people associated 
conquest, plunder, confiscation, and oj^pression ; to it be- 
longed a clergy whose creed they denied, whose incomes 
they were forced to pay, among whom they saw some of 
the most active and zealous denouncers of their own faith ; 
and, as I have said, the burden of this odious tax or tribute 
fell most heavily on the struggling and the poor. A collec- 
tion of advertisements of tithe-auctions would open strange 
revelations of the strangest social condition ever made 
•known in the whole existence of civilized humanity. In 
those auctions, the most wretched articles of the most 
wretchedly indigent w^ere exposed to sale ; the only cow or 
donkey; the half-starved pig ; poultry; the solitary pot or 
platter ; the winter's stock of potatoes ; the bed-covering 
and wearing-apparel, down to the petticoat and the apron of 
Widow Gallaher. Lest this should be thought the exagger- 
ation of burlesque, allow me to read from a volume before 
me a literal copy of one of these advertisements. 

" To BE SOALED BY PuBLicK Cant in the town of Ballymore 
on the 15th Inst one Cowe, the property of Jas Scully one 
new bed & one gown the property of John Quinn seven hanks 
of yarn the pi'operty of Widow Scott one petty Coate & one 
apron the propel'ty of Widow Gallaher seized under & by 
virtue of a leasing warrant for tithe due the Rev John 
Ugher." 

" If," says a statesman, " an established church is valuable 
because it provides for the religious wants of the poor, the 
Church of Ireland does the reverse of this ; it provides for 
the rich only, and compels the poor to pay." Now if tithes 
in their essential principle were so hateful to Irish Catholics 
that no amount of forbearance or prudence in collecting 
them could have rendered them tolerable, it is not easy to 



284 Giles' Lectures. 

conceive the fearfulness of tlieir grievance, when connected 
as ihej were with every possible abuse of administration. 
With the intervention of avaricious tithe-proctors, of un- 
scrupulous appraisers, of lawyers, and of constables, the poor 
man often paid the fifth, instead of tenth, of his hard-earned 
property. 

But it may be said that the clergy spent their incomes 
among the people. Not always. Sometimes the parson 
hardly ever visited the parish which paid him hundreds of 
pounds in yearly revenue. The present Archbishop of 
Cashel had been one of the most zealous of proselytizing 
orators. Besides other large benefices, he owned the richest 
parish in Cork, from which, it was estimated, he derived an 
income of two thousand pounds a year. The church at one 
time needed repairs, and the members of the congregation 
decided to tax themselves, and forego the legal claim for 
church-rates. The ofiicers of the parish wrote to the rector 
for a subscription. He sent them five pounds. The ofiicers 
sent the pittance back to him. This godly and evangelical 
divine never came near the parish, unless it happened to be 
within the range of an itinerating tour. 

Dr. Doyle mentions the case of the rector of a rich living 
in the county of Kildare, who had never been there but 
once in all his life. Such a man was not singular, but rep- 
resentative of a class. Many of the clergy were magistrates, 
and many to their ecclesiastical office added that of land- 
agents. Tithes formed but one item of the Church wealth 
in Ireland. Besides these, there were bishop-lands, glebe- 
lands, and church-rates. The income of five hundred thou- 
sand acres of bishop-lands were estimated at one milHon 
dollars a year. A bishop's lease was but for twenty-one 
years, and the bishop accordingly could impose a heavy fine 
on the renewal of it. One see alone, as it appeared from 
parliamentary returns, possessed fifty-one thousand eight 



Dr. Boyle. 285 

hundred and eighty acres; and it was shown that one bishop 
received fifty thousand pounds for the renewal of a single 
lease.* Add to all this, that the bishops have extensive pat- 
ronage in the Church, and that they very generally use it 
for the benefit of their families and kindred. Many bishops 
die enormously wealthy, and this could not happen without 
the means of rapid accumulation, since a man seldom 
reaches the ej)iscopacy until life has sobered into the gravity 
of 3'ears. Dr. Beresford, the late Archbishop of Armagh, 
was reputed to have left more than a million sterling. This 
was decent saving, although it was the gathering of forty 
thrifty years. Another Beresford went from a rich see to 
this vacant one, which was still richer. The clergy, in con- 
gratulating him on his promotion, sj^oke feelingly on the 
apostolic simplicity of his millionaire predecessor. In all that 
was secularly or sacredly gainful, the Beresfords were a most 
prosperous family; they had a mighty hunger for pelf and 
power, and good digestion waited upon ample appetite. 

But the time came at last when the old tithe system must 
bo no more. The decree had gone forth. The exhausted 
patience of the people could no further go. An individual 
here and there hesitated to pay ; another challenged the 
legal claim. At last the spirit of resistance spread until it 
became universal. No active opposition was offered. The 
Catholics imitated the Quakers. They folded their arms; 
they moved no weapon ; they used no word of threatening 
or sedition. They simply, by their manner, said, " You Avant 
to tax our goods to pay your Church ; then come and 
take our goods to the amount of your tax." Bat that 
which was easy with an inconsiderable sect became terrific 
with a multitudinous nation. All Liberals sustained the 
movement, but O'Connell and Dr. Doyle were the soul and 
spirit of it. The mountain-sides were covered with people 

* Kdiuburgh Ecvicw, November, 1825. 



286 Giles' Lectures. 

who came to listen to orators who denounced the tithe sys- 
tem. Yet there was no violence. Property was seized, but 
there was no resistance. The property could not be sold in 
the localities wherein it was seized ; so it was carried into 
adjacent cities, but in these also it could not be sold. Some 
property in this way was carried into Carlow, but twenty 
thousand men went in along with it. No person was bold 
enough to bid, and the property was returned to the owners. 
Some few cattle were seized in the County of Cork ; but the 
authorities, despairing of finding a sale for them in the 
neighborhood, had them driven into the city. The largest 
open space was there appointed for the sale. On the morn- 
ing destined for the auction there marched into the city some 
thirty thousand men from all sides of the county. They 
were young, healthy, strong, good-ioohing, and well dressed. 
They were unarmed ; they had not even a kippccn ; they 
were as sober as judges, and wore the gravest of faces. 
They came to look on at the auction, but there were none 
that dared to bid. Except the voice of the auctioneer, all 
was dumb show. These lool'crs-on, who came into the city 
in the most orderly manner, marshalled into divisions, bri- 
gades, regiments, and companies, keeping form and step with 
perfect regularity, left the city in the same admirable regu- 
larity. And what was most astonishing in those vast gath- 
erings was the absence of intemperance and of disorder. 
This was really the most fearful element in them to the 
clergy of the Established Church. No tithes were to be 
paid ; that was a decree which no Catholic disobeyed. No 
action for tithes could be enforced ; the power of govern- 
ment seemed unequal to such enforcement. The govern- 
ment which could hold a discontented kingdom, could not 
compel the payment of a shilling to the parish rector. 

I had desired to make some remarks on the vital and 
recuperative energy of the Irish race, which enables the 



Dr. Doyle. 



287 



people of tliat race to recover rapidly from the most disas- 
trous circumstances, and to vindicate at home, and all the 
world over, their living power of mind and body. I can 
now add nothing but the expression of my heartfelt hope 
that the destinies of the Irish people may be brighter in the 
future than they have been in the past ; more worthy of 
their merits as an intellectual, brave, generous, faithful 
race — a race that have always shown that they possess some 
of tlie best elements of genius and humanity — who are ever 
giving the world assurance that they have within them a 
worth and wealth of nature which time does not exhaust, 
and which misfortunes have not injured, but improved. 

An able and eloquent biography of this able prelate, is by 
William John Fitzpatrick. 





OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Oliver Goldsmith was born November 10, 1728, in Pallas, 
County of Longford, Ireland. Other places contend for the 
honor of his birth, but this has the claim of authoritj'. His 
father was a clergyman of numerous familj'-, and of slender 
means, with no faculty of economy, and a strong desire 
for expenditure. It is needless to dweU minutely on a life 
so well known as his, or one that may so easily be known. 
His childhood had some eccentricities, and his college 
career was marked by a few rows and freaks ; but with all 
his wildness, his writings show that the kind heart of his 
childhood continued fresh to the end, and that his coUege 
experience left him, at least, classical knowledge and classical 
tastes. Having been a medical student in Edinburgh and 
Leyden, then he became a penniless wanderer on the con- 
tinent of Europe. After piping to peasants and spouting in 
convents, he returned to London, and there he began as a 
drudge to pedagogues, and ended as a drudge to publishers. 
The amount of desultory composition on every topic which, 
for j^ears, he furnished to his employers, must excite our 
wonder ; but that which most excites it is the general 
beauty which distinguishes these compositions, and the 
pittance by which they were recompensed. Herein, how- 
ever, was the consolation of his privacy. He was just to his 
own powers ; he gratified his own fine taste ; labor was 
mitigated by an inward sense of dignity ; and he was saved 



Oliver Goldsmith. 289 

from that weij^ht of lassitude wliicb presses upon no hireling 
with so deadly an influence as upon the hireling of litera- 
ture. At last, ho toiled his way to fame ; but his expendi- 
ture outran his prosperity. Accustomed hitherto to small 
sums, moderate ones seemed cxhaustless, and on this delu- 
sion of a poor man, unacquainted with money and the world, 
he acted. 

Always thoughtless, ho now became lavish ; ho not only 
spent his money, but anticipated work ; ho not only emp- 
tied his purse, but he drew extravagantly on his faculties. 
He was in arrears with his publishers for books not fin- 
ished, even for books to be written. With much to pay, 
and nothing to receive, with difficulties pressing on the 
mental power which was recpiired in its utmost vigor to 
remove them, his life was approaching to a crisis. A 
fever, rendered fatal by distress of mind, and by his own 
injudicious treatment, carried him off in the forty-sixth 
year of his age. Dr. Johnson, who did not often expose 
his sensibility, was extremely moved ; and Edmund Burke 
burst into tears. It was computed that his debts, when 
he died, amounted to two thousand pou.nds, upon which 
Dr. Johnson exclaims, in a letter to Boswell, " Was poet 
ever so trusted before ? " So loved, indeed, was Goldsmith, 
that the tradesmen to whom part of this was duo mur- 
mured no complaint, put no stain upon his memory ; but 
following departed genius with thoughts of charity, their 
afl'ectionate observation was, that, if ho had lived, he would 
have i^aid them all. Ay, if he had lived! if he had lived, 
ho would have paid them all ! and how much, too, would 
he have given to the world in addition to that obliga- 
tion which the world never discharged ! The greater part 
of the debt which encumbered the last days of his earthly 
existence was one for which booksellers held a mortgage 
npon his mind. To many of these men, his mind was a 

12 



290 Giles' Lectures. 

fountain of wealth ; and to ns, it is a fountain of instruction 
and enjoyment. Cotcmporaries gave Goldsmith a tomb ; his 
most venerable companion gave him an epitaph ; posterity 
have given him their hearts. Few can see the tomb ; few 
can understand the language of the epitaph ; but millions 
love his genius, and in the memory of their living affections 
they enshrine his name. 

After all, his fate was not worse than others in his class. 
No man heard where, or cared how, Chatterton groaned 
away his soul ; so his heart broke in agony, and no Bristol 
trader inquired about the unhappy but inspired boy, who, 
perhaps, grew up beside his threshold. He knew nothing 
of the market or the stocks, and nobody listened to him, 
and nobody cared for him, and nobody heard him. He Avas 
alone ; his brother was not near him ; his sister knew not 
of the despair that gathered upon his sinking heart. He 
looked around him, and all was gloomy, all was dismal. He 
did not wait for starvation to do its worst, but ere it could 
come to wither and to kill him, from some process, easy as 
that of a bare bodkin, he sought his last and long quietus ; 
and where he sought, he found it. 

The character of Goldsmith is one which does not tax 
analysis ; it is felt by instinct ; and that happy phrase, 
" good-natured," defines it with a singular accuracy. Gold- 
smith's good nature, though it exhausted his purse, did 
not exhaust itself. It was an unfailing well-spring ; it was 
ever pure and fresh, bubbling from a copious fountain of 
kindness, and refreshing life around him with streams of 
gaycty, of fondness, and of pity. There was a benignity 
in him Avhich gave his heart an interest in the humblest 
creature. Early in life, in writmg home, he says, " If there 
be a favorite dog in the famil}^, let me be remembered to 
him." His attachment to children was as strong as it was 
amiable. The younger C-olman speaks in rapture of his 



Oliver Goldsmith. 291 

acquaintance Avith Goklsniith, when in infant insolence ho 
used to tweak the poet's nose ; and the jioet, in return, 
played thimble-rig with the child. Nor was this merely 
deference to the son of a r'wXi man and a critic. Goldsmith 
was an idol, also, to the children of the poor ; it was his 
common practice to go among them with pockets full of 
gingerbread, and to set them dancing to the sound of his 
tlute. His, in eveiy scene, was a simple nature ; and he, 
around Avhom rustics pranced on the banks of the Loire, 
was the same around whom ragged innocents gabbled and 
rejoiced in the garrets of Old Bailey. Goldsmith's humanity 
to the poor, generally, was most courteous and most boun- 
tiful. His charity would often have been sublime, if the 
improvidence of his temper did not drive him to contriv- 
ances to supply it, which gave it an air of the ludicrous. 
One morning towards the close of his college course, a 
cousin and fellow-student of his knocked at the door o\ 
his chamber. No reply. He knocked again. Still no reply. 
He then broke it open. Goldsmith was in bed, literally in 
it, for he Avas stuck bodily into the feathers. Some poor 
woman had told him a tragical story ; he was out of money, 
so he brought her to the college, and gave her his blankets. 
Let me take another instance from his later life — an 
instance which, as I think, is most characteristic of the 
author and the man. Suppose ourselves gazing into a hum- 
ble chamber, in the humblest part of London. A ragged 
bed is in one corner, a broken wash-stand is in another. A 
crazy table is placed near a small dusty window, and a man 
sits by this table on the only chair which the room contains. 
The stature of the man is short, and his face is pale ; his 
position has an air of thought, and his look, the glow of 
fancy. This man, whose forehead bulging out with senti- 
ments and ideas, so as to defy all rules of sculi)ture, is ugly ; 
but he is ugly only to those who cannot see light of the spirit 



292 Giles' Lectures. 

through the shrine of the countenance. To those who know 
the touch of nature that makes all men akin, he is inexpres- 
sibly dear ; and they love to gaze on his homely portrait, as 
if it were lovely as ever dawned upon a sculptor's dream. 
The man is Oliver Goldsmith, and as we now describe him, 
he is engaged in writing his Essay On the State of Polite 
Learning in Europe. A knock at his lowly door arouses 
him, and a visitor enters. The visitor is Bishop Percy, the 
admirable collector of Eeliques of Ancient English Poetr^y. 
Goldsmith courteously gives the prelate his only chair, and 
takes himself a seat upon the Avindow-sill. They are en- 
gaged in an earnest conversation on bellelettres and the line 
arts, when a ragged but decent little girl comes into the 
room, and with a respectful obeisance to Goldsmith, says, 
"My mamma sends her compliments, Sir, and begs the favor 
of you to lend her a pot of coals." 

As Goldsmith's fortunes increased, so did his gifts; and 
food was added to fuel. After he had entertained a large 
party at breakfast, he distributed the fragments among a few 
poor women whom he had kept waiting for the purpose. A 
vulgar guest remarked, that lie must be very rich to afford 
such bounty. " It is not wealth, my dear Sir," said Gold- 
smith, " it is inclination ; I have only to suppose that a few 
more friends have been of the party, and then it amounts to 
the same thing." He was, besides, always surrounded by a 
circle of needy writers, whom he had not the firmness to 
refuse, nor the prudence to discharge. He was also beset 
by destitute countrymen, who found a ready way to his last 
shilling through his compassion and his patriotism. To 
such people, bounty was no virtue, but with Goldsmith, pity 
gave ere charity began ; and charity had always the start of 
wisdom. Much as there was in such actions which implied 
want of purpose and want of thought, there was goodness 
too upon which no tone of distress ever fell in vain. " He 



Oliver Golds mil /i. 293 

lias been known," says Prior, the most genial of liis biogra- 
phers, "to quit his bed at night, and even when laboring 
under indisposition, in order to relieve the miserable; and 
when money was scarce, or to be procured with difficulty by 
borrowing, he has, nevertheless, shared it with such as pre- 
sented any claims to charity. 

" At an evening party of friends, he once threw down his 
cards, and rushed from the room, and when asked the cause, 
on his return, of such an abrupt retreat, ' I could not bear,' 
said he, * to hear that unfortunate woman in the street, half 
singing, half sobbing ; for such tones could only arise from 
the extremity of distress ; her voice grated painfully on my 
ear, so that I could not rest until I had sent her away.' To 
the unfortunate, even to those made so by their own errors, 
he ever turned with the spirit of a good Samaritan ; and 
when he had relieved them with his money, he pleaded for 
them with his pen. His word was ever for the feeble, the 
oppressed, and the unhappy; and passages of pathetic elo- 
quence abound in his writings, which nothing could have 
inspired but the finest natural feeling. ' Who are those,' he 
exclaims, in the character of his Citizen of the World, 'who 
make the streets their couch, and find a short repose from 
wretchedness at the doors of the opulent ? These are stran- 
gers, wanderers, orphans, whose circumstances are too 
humble to expect redress, and whose distresses are too great 
even for pity. Their wretchedness excites rather horror 
than compassion. Some are without the covering even of 
rags, and others emaciated with disease. The world has 
disclaimed them ; society turns its back upon their distress, 

and has given them up to nakedness and hunger 

Poor houseless creatures ! the world will give you re- 
proaches, but will not give you relief. The slightest misfor- 
tunes of the great, the most imaginary uneasiness of the rich, 
are aggravated with all the power of eloquence, and are held 



2^4 Giles' Lectures. 

up to engage our attention and sympathetic sorrow. The 
poor weep unheeded, persecuted by every species of petty 
tyranny, and every law which gives others a security becomes 
an enemy to them.' " 

This generosity of temper, united with keen observation, 
enabled Goldsmith to pierce readily through the disguises 
of selfishness; so that, with his comic sagacity, and his 
genial perception of the ludicrous, no writer can give more 
amusing pictures than he does of sordid follies. Even in 
his very youth, we have the narrative of an adventure which 
promises all the thoughtful drollery that he afterwards ex- 
hibited. He had gone in a freak to Cork, mounted on a 
noble horse, and with thirty pounds in his pocket. It was 
not long ere he was returning, with merely five shillings, 
and mounted on an animal which he called Fiddle-back. 
He was, however, blithe and careless, for near to the city 
there was a college friend who had often pressed him to a 
visit. "We shall enjoy," he would say, "both the city and 
the country; and you shall command my stable and my 
purse." 

Going towards his friend's house, he divided his five shil- 
lings with a destitute woman, and on his arrival, he found 
his friend an invalid ; but so cordial was his reception, that 
remorse struck him for not having given the whole five shil- 
Hngs to his needy sister. He stated his case, and opened his 
heart to his friend. His friend walked to and fro, rubbed 
his hands, and Goldsmith attributed this to the force of his 
compassion, which required motion, and to the delicacy of 
his sentiments, which commanded silence. The hour was 
growing late, and Goldsmith's appetite had been long at 
craving point. "At length an old woman came into the 
room with two plates, one spoon, and a dirty cloth, which 
she laid upon the table. This appearance," says Goldsmith, 
" without increasing my spirits, did not diminish my ajipe- 



Oliver Goldsmith. 295 

tite. My protectress soon returned with one bowl of sago, 
a small porringer of sonr milk, a loaf of stale brown bread, 
and the heel of an old cheese. My friend," continues the 
poet, " apologized, that his illness obliged him to live on 
slops, and that better fare was not in the house; observing, 
at the same time, that a milk diet was certainly the most 
healthful. At eight o'clock he again recommended a regular 
life, declaring that, for his part, he would lie down with the 
lamb, and rise with the lark. My hunger was at this time 
so exceedingly sharp, that I wished for another slice of the 
loaf, but was obliged to go to bed without even that refresh- 
ment." 

Next morning Goldsmith spoke of his departure. " To be 
sure," said this munificent friend, " the longer you stay away 
from your mother, the more you will grieve her, and your 
other relatives; and possibly they are already afHicted at 
hearing of this foolish expedition you have made." Gold- 
smith, then reminding him of former good turns, tried to 
borrow a guinea from him. "Why look you, Mr. Gold- 
smith," said Solomon the younger, " I have paid you all you 
ever lent me, and this sickness of mine has left me bare of 
cash. But, I have bethought myself of a conveyance for 
you. Sell your horse, and I will fui'nish you with a much 
better one to ride on." I readily, said Goldsmith, grasped 
at this proposal, and begged to see the nag ; on which he 
led me to his bedchamber, and from under the bed pulled 
out a stout oak stick. " Here," said he, " take this in j^our 
hand, and it will carry you to your mother's with more safety 
than such a horse as you ride." Goldsmith was about to lay 
it on his back, but a casual visitor coming in, his generous 
friend introduced him with eulogium and with enthusiasm. 
Both of them had an invitation to dinner; for which Gold- 
smith was quite prepared ; and it seemed not less acceptable 
to the amiable invalid. At the close of the evening, the en- 



290 Giles' Lectures. 

tertainer offered Goldsmith a bed, who then told his former 
host to go home and take care of his excellent horse, but 
that he ^yould never enter his house again. 

The objections against Goldsmith's benevolence of char- 
acter, drawn from Boswell, are easily answered. Boswell 
did not like Goldsmith. He did not, and could not, do him 
justice. The position of Goldsmith near Johnson, was gall- 
ing to Boswell. He was humiliated when Goldsmith was 
present ; for, familiar as Boswell was with the great moralist, 
his relation to him was not like that of the poet, an equal 
and a brother. The conviction of such inferiority was 
intolerable to a man of Boswell's temper ; and the sternness 
with which Johnson put to silence every effort of his to de- 
preciate Goldsmith so sharpened his asperit}', that occasion- 
ally it seemed half malignant. Whatever foibles belonged to 
Oliver Goldsmith, no one could be ignorant that the author 
of " The Traveler " was a man of genius ; and the very 
dignity in which Johnson held the profession of letters, 
would never permit him, even if affection did not interfere, 
to treat Goldsmith with irreverence. If for a moment, in 
his turbulent dogmatism, he forgot the respect which was a 
brother's due, an immediate and complete apology expressed 
his contrition, and changed him from the superior to the 
suppliant. 

It was a hard lot to Boswell, that, notwithstanding all 
his assiduit}^. Goldsmith maintained a communion with 
Johnson to Avhich he could never dare. Boswell's situation 
was that of a petted favorite, a pleasant amanuensis, a lackey 
to the mind ; but the place of Goldsmith was that of prince 
Avith prince. Goldsmith took little notice of Boswell, not 
from any special feeling, I apprehend, but because there was 
nothing in him that struck his fancy; and Boswell, who, like 
all favorites, was insolent, was mortally chagrined that one 
whom he would fain consider beneath him, should so quietly 



Oliver Goldsmith. 297 

but so effectually show liim that he was merely a subordi- 
nate. The impression of Goldsmith which Boswell's remarks 
tend to leave is, that he had not only a vanity which was 
disgusting, but an envy which was detestable. But Prior, 
who has sifted all the facts, exposes successfully the ab- 
surdity of the charges. BosweU himself was a man both 
vain and envious ; and such a man is always the most likely 
to charge vanity and envy on another. Goldsmith unques- 
tionably had vanity — a vanity which, added to a grotesque 
appearance and ungainly manners, became a ludicrous 
oddity, and, as in the case of every kind-hearted person of 
confiding simplicity and open speech, he was at the mercy 
of his critics. He had all the youthfulness of genius. Ne- 
cessity compelled him to severe exertion. In the hours of 
relaxation he gambolled as a boy, and capered in every 
whim which his guileless and unsuspicious temper prompted. 
INIuch he said and did in sheer sportiveness, which BosweU 
has set down seriously, if not in malice ; and much, there- 
fore, which Boswell has written of Goldsmith, is worthy of 
as profound attention as the candid commentaries of Mrs. 
Trollope on domestic manners in America. 

Goldsmith had vanity that was undisguised, but it had 
the association of goodness to save it from offending, and of 
genius to shield it from derision. Boswell, who ri.dicules 
the vanity of Goldsmith, had also a vanity of his own, but, 
sooth to say, it was of a very odd kind ; it was the vanity 
of servitude, the vanity of voluntary abasement, the vanity 
that seemed paradoxically to combine the mean and the 
heroic ; a meanness that first submitted to abuse, and a 
heroism that afterwards recorded it ; a vanity which had 
strong resemblance to that ascribed by Dean Swift to 
" John," in " The Tale of the Tub ;" the vanity, allow me to 
speak it in vernacular Saxon, the vanity of being kicked. I 
do not, however, deny that Boswell has left us a most fasci- 



298 GUea' Lectures, 

nating book, a book which he could not perhaps have writ- 
ten, had his mind been of an order more aspuing and more 
independent. 

I have confined my remarks chiefly to a distinctive quality 
in the character of Goldsmith, universall}'- conceded ; but 
his whole worth was by no means confined to this. No 
gross vices are recorded against him ; his general habits 
appear to have been comparatively unstained ; his general 
tastes were simple ; he was temperate almost to abstinence ; 
and excess he regarded with abhorrence. To speak thus 
is to speak negatively, but these negatives, connected with 
Goldsmith's position and his times, have a value that is 
positive. But one virtue eminently positive, belongs to 
Goldsmith, and that is, his exceeding literary purity; the 
sacred independence with which he used his talents, and 
the saci'ed p)urposes to which he applied them. Follies 
were his, which gathered afflictions about his lot, which not 
all his innocent hilarity could throw off. Carelessness 
brought misfortunes upon him, which broke at last his 
elastic capacity of endurance ; but no destitution was ever 
a temptation to his literary conscience ; and no pressure 
ever bent its rectitude. From the beginning, Goldsmith 
eschewed patrons ; he acted, from the first, on the manly 
resolution of seeking support in the honest exertion of his 
own powers. The Earl of Northumberland, going as Lord 
Lieutenant of Ireland, ofi^ered him assistance ; Goldsmith de- 
clined for himself, but requested protection for his brother, 
a worthy pastor and a worthy man. Sir John Hawkins 
calls him a fool ; but his own words show he was as wise as 
he was conscientious : " I have," said he, " no dependence 
on the promises of the great men. I look to the booksellers 
for support ; they are my best friends." 

It is true, that Goldsmith could not always have an end 
3qual to his genius ; but he never perjured his convictions, 



Oliver Goldsmith. 299 

nor bartered Lis soul. It is true, that his maiu object was 
often iiAerely to do a certain quantity of work, and receive a 
certain sum of wages, and of tliis he sometimes complains 
with a sort of melancholy pleasantr3^ He says, in reference 
to his History of England, "I have been a good deal abused 
lately in the newspapers for betraying the liberty of the 
people. God knows, I had no thought for or against liberty 
in my head ; my whole aim being to make a book of a 
decent size, that, as Squire Richard says, would do no harm 
to nobody." But though Goldsmith had often to think 
more of sustenance than fame, he merely wrote rapidly, he 
did not Avrite falsely. Living in an age when a name sold a 
book, and when patrons made a name, and when dedications 
earned patrons. Goldsmith passed over titles and gratified 
his affections. The first of his poems he inscribed to an 
indigent brother, and the others he inscribed to his imme- 
diate friends. 

He was ever perplexed with debts and surrounded with 
difficulties. His heart always craving for money to give, 
and his supply always far behind his craving, yet he could 
reject propositions which men, who have secured a reputa- 
tion for more austere virtue than Goldsmith, would have 
found elegant excuses for accepting. The British Cabinet, 
by a confidential agent, intimated a munificent remunera- 
tion for his pen. The poet occupied sordid chambers, and 
labored like a slave ; but here was his answer : " I can earn 
as much as will supply my wants without writing for any 
party; the assistance, therefore, which you offer is unneces- 
sary to me." 

Can you think of a much stronger temptation among 
eai-thly struggles, than the offer of a rich government to a 
poor Avi-iter ? Judge Goldsmith, then, by the severity of his 
trial, and give him the credit of his victory. But he was 
honest with the public as he was with patrons. Needj 



800 Giles' Lectures. 

though he was, he sought the suffrage of men only by meana 
which tended to make them Aviser, and to make them better ; 
and of those compositions which multitudes seek, as much 
as they should shun them, and which it is as easy as it is 
dishonorable to produce, not one can be laid to the charge 
of Goldsmith. The spirit of his works is as chaste as their 
style is classical ; and to him belongs the glory of having 
purified expression, when the phraseology even of women was 
coarse ; and of having consecrated the novel to virtue, when 
the pen of fiction was dipped in the offscourings of passion. 

I am compelled to pass from a brief review of Goldsmith's 
character, to an equally brief review of his writings. The 
writings of Goldsmith, if they had no other excellence, would 
be remarkable for their felicitous versatility. The author 
is successively presented to us as historian, essayist, dra- 
matist, poet, and novelist. The few words I can say of 
Goldsmith, as a writer, will take the order which I have 
now indicated. 

As a historian, Goldsmith accomplishes all at which he 
aims. He does not promise much, but he does more than 
he promises. He takes, it is true, facts which had been 
already collected, but he shapes them with an art that is all 
his own. He has the rare faculty of being brief without 
being dry ; of being at once iDcrspicuotis and compressed, 
and of giving to the merest abridgment the interest of dra- 
matic illusion. Dr. Johnson set a high value on Gold- 
smith, if not as a historian, at least as a narrator ; and 
Dr. Johnson was a man whose critical austerity even friend- 
ship rareh^ softened. Dr. Johnson Avent so far as to jolace 
Goldsmith above Eobertson. When we have taken into 
consideration Johnson's prejudices against Robertson for 
being a Scotchman and a Presbyterian, a worth will still 
remain in the opinion, which we must allow to Goldsmith. 
Robertson, Johnson represents as crushed under his own 



Oliver Goldsmith. 301 

weight ; or as like a man that packs gold in wool, the wool 
taking more room than the gold. Goldsmith, he says, puts 
into his book as much as his book will hold. No man, he 
asserts, Avill read Robertson's cumbrous detail a second 
time ; but Goldsmith's plain narrative will please again and 
again. Johnson remarked of Goldsmith in one of his con- 
versations, "He is now writing a Natural History, and he 
will make it as entertaining as a Persian tale." AVith these 
histories of Goldsmith we cannot dispense ; a beautiful mix- 
ture of the agreeable and the useful, they are dear to us 
with all their imperfections ; they are lessons for our child- 
hood, and relaxation for our maturity. They have a perma- 
nent existence in our literature, and they deserve it. They 
deserve it, not alone for their charms of expression, but for 
qualities of higher worth ; for purity of sentiment, for hon- 
esty of purpose, for benevolence of heart, for the wisdom 
of a liberal spirit, and the moderation of a humane temper. 

As an essayist, Goldsmith ranks with the highest in our 
language. "With a keen observation of life and manners, he 
unites delightful ease ; and he softens caustic sarcasm with 
a pleasant humor. Amidst a varied experience, he pre- 
served a simple heart ; and he drew human nature as he 
found it, with the freedom of a satirist, but never with the 
coldness of a cynic. The essays of Goldsmith are wise as 
well as amusing, and display as much sagacity as variety. 
They abound in impressive moral teachings, in apt exam- 
ples, and in beautiful illustrations. Serious, when soberness 
is wisdom, and gay when laughter is not folly ; they can 
prompt the smile, they can also start the tear ; inspiration 
comes with the occasion, in unexpected eloquence, and in 
unbidden pathos. 

To speak of Goldsmith as an essayist, is to suggest a 
comparison of his merits with writers whose excellence in 
didactic and humorous composition forms an elevated and 



802 Giles' Lectures. 

a severe standard. But Goldsmith will bear tlie comparison. 
He has not, indeed, the undefiuable grace of Addison ; nor 
the solemn wisdom of Johnson. But neither has Addison 
his freshness, his hearty and broad ridicule, the cheerful 
comicry which will not be satisfied with an elegant simper, 
but must have the loud and open laugh. Johnson on the 
solemn themes of humanity maintains a melancholy gran- 
deur ; he sits in despondency and solitude ; his general 
reflections on life and destiny are the deep sighings of a 
heart that seeks for hope, but has not found it ; the pant- 
ings of a troubled soul alarmed by superstition, but wanting 
faith ; they are lofty, but cheerless ; they are eloquent, but 
monotonous ; they have music, but it is the music of lamen- 
tation ; they are the modulations of a dirge. Johnson knew 
well the dark abstractions which belong to our nature ; but 
he did not understand the details of common existence as 
Goldsmith did. He could moralize, but he could not paint ; 
he has spendid passages, but no pictures ; he could philoso- 
phize, but he could not create. He has, therefore, left us 
no special individualities, to which our fancies can give lo- 
cal habitations ; he has made no addition to that world of 
beings, whose population and whose history belong to ima- 
gination ; he has given it no new inhabitant, none to walk 
beside the "Vicar of Wakefield" or "Sir Roger de Coverly." 
As for " Basselas," he is a declamatox*y shadow ; and cloud- 
formed as he is, the vapor does not long preserve a shape ; 
for the outlines soon melt into the illimitable expanse of 
gloomy meditation. 

After reading a paper in the "Rambler," or a chapter in 
" Rasselas," I take up Goldsmith's " Citizen of the "World " 
with a new relish ; and when I have perused some pages, 
I feel resuscitated from depression by its satire, its shrewd- 
ness, its pleasantry, and good sense. What a pungent im- 
personation of poverty and folly is Beau Tibbs, such an 



Oliver Goldsmith. 303 

admirable combination of the dandy and the loafer. John- 
sou could have no more conceived of Beau Tibbs than he 
could have invented a dialect for little fishes. Goldsmith at 
one time told the critic, that if he gave little fishes language, 
that ho \vould make little fishes speak like whales. So 
he would make Beau Tibbs speak like " The Last Man." 
But Goldsmith understood what little fishes should say, if 
they had the gift of speech ; it is no wonder, that he knew 
the proper phraseology of Beau Tibbs, who had that gift 
with a most miraculous fiuenc3^ 

Beau Tibbs is a perfect character of the Jeremy Diddler 
school. Dressed in the finery of rag-fair, ho talks of the 
balls and assemblies he attends. He has invitations to 
noblemen's feasts for a month to come ; yet he jumps at an 
offer to share a mug of porter ; he bets a thousand guineas, 
and in the same breath, it is " Dear Drybone, lend me half- 
a-crown for a minute or two." Once in company with his 
Chinese friend, the Citizen of the World, they are asked 
twenty pounds for a seat to see the coronation. The Chinese 
sage inquires whether a coronation will clothe, or feed, or 
fatten him. " Sir," replied the man, " you seem to be under 
a mistake ; all you can bring away is the pleasure of having 
it to say, that you saw the coronation." " Blast me," cries 
Tibbs, " if that be all, there is no need of paying for that, 
since I am resolved to have that pleasure, whether I am 
there or not." 

Beau Tibbs, then, is a character, and so is the " Man in 
Black." Where will you find more originality? A most 
delightful compound is the "Man in Black ;" a rarity not to 
be met with often ; a true oddity, with the tongue of Timon 
and the heart of Uncle Toby. He proclaims Avar against 
pauperism, yet he cannot say "no" to a beggar. Ho ridi- 
cules generosity, yet would he share with the poor whatever 
he possessed. He glories in having become a niggard, as 



304 Giles' Lectures. 

he wishes to be thought, and thus describes his conversion. 
Having- told how he quitted the folly of liberality, " I now," 
said ho, "pursued a course of uninterrupted frugality, sel- 
dom Avanted a dinner, and was consequently invited to 
twenty. I soon began to get the character of a saving 
hunks, that had money, and insensibly I grew into esteem. 
Neighbors have asked my advice in the disposal of their 
daughters, and I have always taken care not to give any. 
I have contracted a friendship with an alderman only by 
observing, that if we take a farthing from a thousand pounds, 
it will bo a thousand pounds no longer. I have been invited 
to a pawnbroker's table by pretending to hate gravy, and 
ani now actually on a treo.ty of marriage with a rich widow, 
for only having observed that bread was rising. If ever I 
am asked a question, whether I know it or not, instead of 
answering it, I only smile, and look wise. If a charity is 
proposed, I go about with the hat, but put nothing in myself. 
If a wretch solicits my pity, I observe that the world is filled 
with impostors, and take a certain method of not being de- 
ceived by never relieving." 

As a draniatist, Goldsmith is amusing ; and if to excite 
laughter bo, as Johnson asserts it is, the chief end of com- 
edy, Goldsmith attains it. His plots, however, are extrava- 
gant, and his personages are oddities rather than characters. 
Goldsmith's plays want the contrivance which belongs to 
highest art ; but they have all those ingenious accidents 
which are suitable for stage effect. They are, in fact, defi- 
cient in that insight which pertains only to great dramatic 
genius. " The Good-natured Man " is an agreeable satire 
on the follies of benevolence, and " She Stoops to Conquer," 
a laughable burlesque on a very improbable mistake. 
Croaker, in the one, is an effective caricature on men of 
groaning and long faces; and Tony Lumpkin, in the other, 
is a broad, grimiing stereotype of a foolish mother's fool. 



Oliver GoldstnUh. 305 

These two comedies compriso all Goldsmith's theatrical writ- 
ings. Both of them abound in drollery and strong touches 
of nature ; but they do not give the author an exalted posi- 
tion among dramatists, and they do not promise that ho 
could have reached it. 

lu referring to Goldsmith as a poet, I have no intention 
to commit the impertinence of formal criticism. I have an 
easy and a pleasant work. I have nothing to defend, and 
nothing to refute. I have only to call up simple recollec- 
tions, which are endeared to us all by the unanimous expe- 
rience of a common pleasure. Who has not read " The 
Traveler," and "The Deserted Village," and "The Hermit," 
and "Retaliation?" And who that has read them will for- 
get, or not recall them, as among the sweetest melodies 
which his thoughts preserve ? " The Traveler " has the 
most ambitious aim of Goldsmith's poetical compositions. 
The author, placed on a height of the Alps, muses and mor- 
alizes on the countries around him. His object, it appears, 
is to show the equality of happiness, which consists with 
diversities of circumstances and situations. The poem is, 
therefore, mainly didactic. Description and reflection are 
subservient to an ethical purpose, and this purpose is never 
left out of sight. The descriptive passages are all vivid, but 
some of them are imperfect. Italy, for instance, in its prom- 
inent aspects, is boldly sketched. We are transported to 
the midst of its mountains, woods, and temples; we are 
under its sunny skies, we are embosomed in its fruits and 
flowers, we breathe its fragrant aii', and we are charmed by 
its matchless landscapes; but we miss the influence of its 
arts, and the solemn impression of its former grandeur. Wo 
are made to survey a nation in degeneracy and decay; but 
we are not relieved by the glow of RafTael, or excited by the 
might of the Colliseum. 

The fact is, that Goldsmith, with a pure taste and a sweet 



30G Giles' Lectures. 

fancy, was not a man of varied culture, or of wide reflection. 
The general equality, the honest toil, the frugal habits, the 
domestic virtue, and the heroic patriotism of the Swiss, are 
eloquently commended. But of all countries on the Euro- 
pean continent, France was the one of Goldsmith's affec- 
tions, and his experience in that gay land is detailed with 
the partiality of a lover. The character of the Hollanders 
has the most severity ; that of the English the most power. 
Whether Goldsmith's description of the Enghsh be consid- 
ered true or false, none can deny the force of its expression : 

" Stern o'er each bosom, reason holds her state, 
With daring aims irregularly great ; 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashioned, fresh from nature's hand ; 
Fierce in their native liardihood of soul, 
Ti'ue to imagined right, above control ; 
While e'en the peasant boasts these riglits to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man." 

" The Deserted Village " belongs to the heart, and the 
heart guards it from the profanation of analysis. It is a 
poem upon which the heart has long decided. Each of us 
might sa}^, with the author of that Sweet Auburn which he 
has immortalized : 

" How often have I loitei'cd o'er thy green. 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
How often have I paused on evor}^ charm, 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
The silent church, that topped the neighboring hill. 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade 
For talking age and whispering lovers made." 

The characters of this poem are our household friends, 
angels whom we love to entertain, yet not as strangers, nor 



Oliver (Goldsmith. 307 

tmawares. Their names were on our lips at school, and they 
will be pleasant to the grave. Who of ns will not ever rev- 
erence the Village Pastor ? Who of ns have not been guests 
in his chimney corner, and listened with him to the aged 
beggar and the broken soldier ? 

"The broken soldier kindly ])a(lc to stay, 
Sat by tlie fire, and talked the night away; 
Wept o'er his wounds, and tales of sorrow done, 
Sliouldered his cniteli, and showi'd how fields were won." 

AVe have all, too, followed this good man to the house of 
prayer, where he shone with unaffected grace, where the 
young loved him, and where the old admired ; we have fol- 
lowed him to the house of moux'ning, where his steps were 
soft as mercy, and Avhere his tones were filled with heaven : 

" Beside the bed, where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood ; at his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
C'oinfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whisjjcred praise." 

Nor is the good old Schoolmaster less a favorite with us ; 
for 

"He was kind, or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
Tlie village wondered all, how much he knew, 
'Twas certain lie could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
And e'en the story ran that he could guage. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still : 
While words of learned length and thundering soimd 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all he knew. ' ' 

Goldsmith deserves his popularity, for he loved the peo- 
ple ; it was mankind he respected, and not office. In many 



308 OiJcs' Lectures. 

ways he was not unlike Burns, but most like him in personal 
independence and popular sympathy. Burns, with all his 
impassioned aspiration, has nothing liner than this : 

" Hard fares the land to hastening ills a prey, 
Where Avealth accuinulates, and men deca)' ; 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade — 
A hreath can make them, as a hreath has made ; 
But a hold peasantry, their country's pride. 
When once destroyed, can never ho suppliwl." 

On Goldsmith's poetry the judgment of the literary and 
the laity seem unanimous ; both equally approve, and this 
is a rare consent. " The Traveler " and " The Deserted 
Village " are perfect in their kind ; and of his shorter pro- 
ductions, "The Hermit'' is a masterpiece of tenderness, 
and " Retaliation " a masterpiece of sagacity. 

Goldsmith as a novelist has based an undying reputation 
upon one brief tale. Nor is this tale, critically considered, 
without grave defects. Parts of the plot are improbable ; 
some of the incidents are even out of possibility, and much 
in each of the characters is inconsistent. " We cannot, for 
instance, conceive," Sir Walter Scott remarks, "how Sir 
WilUam Thornhill should contrive to masqtierade under 
the name of Burchell among his own tenantry, and upon 
his own estate ; and it is absolutely impossible to see how 
his nephew, the son doubtless of a younger brother (since 
Sir William inherited both title and property), should be 
nearly as old as the baronet himself. It may be added, that 
the character of Burchell, or Sir Wilham Thoi-nhill, is in 
itself extravagantly unnatural. A man of his benevolence 
would never have so long left his nephew in the possession 
of wealth, which he employed in the worst of purposes. 
Far less would he have permitted his scheme upon Olivia 
in a great measure to succeed, and that upon Sophia also 
to approach consummation ; for, in the first instance, he 



Oliver Goldsmith. 309 

does not interfere at all, and in the second his intervention 
is accidental." 

This is a criticism from the highest of novelists, upon one 
who was the kindest. It is not, however, a criticism ad- 
vanced with the technicalities of art ; it is one which simple 
nature indicates, and which, if simple readers could not 
readily discover, they will readily admit. In what then 
consists the charm, which striking blemishes are not able 
to dissolve? It consists in that most beautiful creation of 
English fiction, " The Primrose Family." In this fascinat- 
ing group, there is a spell which rivets our attention, and 
fixes our affections, and we cannot throw it off. We are 
bound to the Primroses and their oi-iginality of innocence, 
by the purity of their domestic life, and by the strength of 
their domestic love. Each of the Primroses is a decided 
and distinct individual. The Vicar has become known to 
us as a daily neighbor ; the good Vicar, at once so heroic 
and so childlike ; so simple, and yet so wise ; so strong in 
the energy of the true, so gentle in the meekness of the 
holy. Beside him, in evil times and good, we have his loyal 
dame, Avho thought people ought to hold up their heads ; 
whose cunning plots were open to all eyes but her own ; 
who was proud of her sagacity, proud of her station, proud 
of her children, but prouder than all of her husband. Then 
we have George, the sage-errant of the family. We have 
the girls, " a glory and a joy " within their home, each 
different in her loveliness ; Olivia, with such gladness in 
her laughter ; Sophia, with such sweetness in her smiles 
Moses, too, is a leading personage ; Moses, half philosopher 
and half a fool, who, hke his father, could talk of the 
ancients, and, like his mother, " knew what he was about." 
Even little Dick and Bill, the privileged prattlers of the 
circle, have their places in the story, and the story needs 
them. And did ever another story, in such compass, touch 



310 Giles' Lectures. 

so many emotions, and touch them so deeply ? We laugh 
at its breadth of humor, we repose over its quiet pictures, 
and in a moment we are startled into weeping by its pathos. 
When the Vicar discovers the absence of his Olivia, his 
beautiful child, and his beloved, the spotless dove that but 
lately nestled in his bosom, who is not stunned at his mad- 
ness, and exalted as he passes from madness to submission ? 
When, from this, we trace him through the lire that leaves 
him houseless, to the prison where his eldest son lies chained 
for death ; where his familj' gather about him in mourning 
and in want ; how sublime, in every position, in his conduct, 
and how cheering are his words ! With what heavenly 
mercy does he seek his fallen daughter ; with what fatherly 
pity does he receive and shield her ! 

Not tired in alleviating the affliction which has bruised 
the hopes of his own house, he bears consolation to the 
wicked with whom his own blameless lot is cast ; ho finds 
a brother in the assassin's cell, and in the felon's chains ; 
for he linds in each a human being, and he wins him to 
repentance by the eloquence which evangelical sympathy 
alone inspires, and which evangelical sympathy alone can 
speak. His family companions, in his adversity, are trans- 
formed to his moral grandeur ; his wife, chastened by 
suffering, laj's aside her trifling, and shows herself a true- 
hearted woman. Even the rustic Moses, by his patient toil, 
not only earns the means of support for his imprisoned 
father, but for himself the meed of imperishable regard. 

The humor of this tale is as delightful to cheer, as its 
wisdom is to instruct us. Nor does the wisdom lose force, 
but gains it in the humor by which it is relieved. The good 
Dr. Primrose seems himself aware, that people must smile 
at his zeal for "monogamy." Winston had engraven an 
his wife's tomb, " that she was the only wife of William Wins- 
ton." "I wrote," says the Vicar, " a similar epitaph for my 



Oliver Goldsmitk. 311 

wife, though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, 
econoni}', and obedience, until death, and having got it 
copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the 
chimney-piece, where it answered several useful purposes. 

. . It inspired her with a passion for fame, and 
constantly put her in mind of her end." Cousins to the for- 
tieth degree claimed kindred, and had their claim allowed. 
Poor guests, well treated, make a happy company, and 
Dr. Primrose was, "by nature, an admirer of happy faces." 
When the guest was not desirable a second time, the Doctor 
says that he ever took care to lend him a riding coat, or a 
pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value ; " and 
I always," observes the good Vicar, " had the satisfaction 
of finding that he never came back to return them." Trav- 
elers, too, would sometimes step in to taste Mrs. Primrose's 
gooseberry wine ; "and I profess,'' says the Doctor, "on 
the veracity of a historian, that I never knew one of them 
find fault with it." The Doctor was as proud of his theory, 
as his spouse was of her gooseberry wine, and so lost a 
horse by his philosophical vanity. 

"Are you. Sir," inquired Jenkins, "related to the great 
Dr. Primrose, that courageous monogamist, the bulwark of 
the Church ?" 

" You behold, Sir, before you, that Dr. Primrose, whom 
you are pleased to call great ; you see here that unfortunate 
divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me to say, 
so successfully, struggled against the deuterogamy of the 

" Thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy !" exclaims 
Jenkins. 

Jenkins accepts the offer of his friendship ; with his 
friendship he takes his horse, in return giving him a false 
note for payment. The wisdom of the Vicar was a notable 
climax to the sagacity of the son ; and an empty check on 



312 - Giles' Lectures. 

Farmer Flamborough, was an appropriate counterpart from 
the same hand which had furnished the gross of green spec- 
tacles. Moses was the oracle of his mother. Moses, she 
said, alwaj'S knew what he was about. How proudly he 
traveled up to the door, after his horse-dealing speculation, 
with his deal box upon his shoulder ; with what quietude 
of success he received the salutations of his father. 

""Well Moses, m}' boy, what have you brought us from 
the fair ?" 

" Myself," cries Moses, with a sly look. 

" Ah, Moses," cried my wife, " that we know, but where is 
the horse ?" 

" I have sold him," cried Moses, " for three pounds five 
shillings and two pence." 

" Well done, my good boy," returned she, " I knew you 
would touch them off. Between ourselves, th;i*ee pounds 
five shillings and two pence, is no bad day's work. Come, 
let us have it then." 

" I have brought back no money," cried Moses, again ; 
" I have laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling 
out a bundle from his breast ; " here they are, a gross of 
green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases." 

George was a worthy member of the same family, who 
went to Holland to teach English, and did not reflect until 
he landed, that it was necessary to know Dutch. And quite 
in keeping with all, was the family picture, which was first 
ordered to be of a certain size, and was then found to be too 
large for the house. The Flamboroughs were drawn, seven 
of them, with seven oranges, " a thing quite out of taste, no 
variety in life, no composition in the world.'' We desired, 
says the Vicar, something in a brighter style, and then 
comes the detail. 

"My wife," the Doctor observes, "desired to be repre- 
sented as Venus, and the painter was desired not to be too 



Oliver Goldsmith. 313 

frugal of bis diamonds in her stomacher and hair. Her two 
little ones were to be Cupids by her side ; while I, in my 
gown and bands, was to present her with my book on the 
■\Vhistonian Controversy. OUvia would be drawn as an 
Amazon sitting on a bank of flowers, dressed in a green 
Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. 
Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the 
painter would put in for nothing ; and. Moses was to bo 
dressed out with a hat and white feather. Our taste so 
pleased the squire, that ho insisted on being put in as one 
of the family, in the character of Alexander the Great, at 
Olivia's feet." 

The character of Goldsmith is not of the most exalted 
kind, and though it is endeared to us from its simplicity, it 
docs not command our highest admiration. It wanted self- 
denial ; it therefore wanted the regulated foresight, the 
austere economy, by which lofty qualities are sustained and 
exercised. In virtues of the severe cast, that sacrifice is not 
the least, which, for the good of mankind, makes resignation 
of popular affections ; and if we could perceive what great 
hearts have in this way endured, instead of esteeming them 
stoics, we would revere them as martyrs. 

Goldsmith is one of those whom we cannot help liking, 
and whom we cannot criticise ; yet he is one that should be 
praised with caution, if in our age there was nnich danger 
of his being imitated. We are too busy for meditative 
vagrancy ; we are too practical for the delusions of schol- 
arship ; even with the felicitous genius of Oliver Gold- 
smith, the literary profession would now be an insecure 
basis for subsistence, and none at all for prodigality. 
Extent of competition, the rigor of criticism, the difficulty 
of acting on an immensely reading public, repx'ess the efforts 
of vanity ; yet, except in a few instances, they do not 
compensate the efforts of power ; the vain are driven to 

14 



814 Giles^ Lectures. 

obscurity, but the powerful have little more than their fame. 
And though Ave possessed the abilities of Goldsmith, and 
were tempted to his follies, his life is before us for a me- 
mento, and his experience is sufficient for a warning. Yet 
is it agreeable to la}'' aside our prudence for a little, and 
enjoy with nim, in fancy at least, the advantage of the hour ; 
to participate in his thoughtless good nature, and to enter 
into his careless gayety; to sit with him in some lonely Swiss 
glen ; or to listen to his flute among the peasantry of France ; 
or to hear him debate logical puzzles in monastic Latin ; to 
share the pride of his new purj^le coat, which Johnson would 
not praise, and which Boswell could not admire. More 
grateful still is the relief which we derive from the perusal 
of his works ; for in these we have the beauty of his mind, 
and no shade upon its wisdom ; the sweetness of humanity, 
and its dignity also. 

We need the mental refreshment which writers like Gold- 
smith afford. Our active and our thoughtful powers are all 
on the stretch ; and such, unless it has appropriate relaxa- 
tions, is not a state of nature or a state of health. From the 
troubles of business, which absorb the attention or exhaust 
it ; from the acclivities of socio t}', which exemplify, in the 
same degree, the force of mechanism and the force of will ; 
from the clamor of politics, from the asperity of religious 
discussions, we turn to philosophy and literature for less 
fatiguing or less disquieting interests. But our philosophy, 
when not dealing with matter, is one which, in seeking the 
limits of reason, carries it ever into the infinite and obscure; 
our literature is one which, in its genuine forms, has equal 
intensity of passion and intensity of expression ; which, in 
its spurious forms, mistakes extravagance for the one, and 
bombast for the other. Our genuine literature is the pro- 
duction of natural causes, and has its peculiar excellence. 
But from the excitement of our present literature, whether 



Oliver Goldsmith. 



315 



genuine or spurious, it is a pleasant change to take up the 
tranquil pages of Goldsmith ; to feel the sunny glow of his 
thoughts upon our hearts, and on our fancies the gentle 
music of his words. In laying down his writings, we are 
tempted to exclaim, " O that the author of ' The Deserted 
Village ' had written more poetry ! O that the author of 
'The Vicar of Wakefield' had written more novels!" 





THE CHRISTIAN IDEA IN CATHOLIC ART AND 
IN PROTESTANT CULTURE. 



My present subject, " Tlie Christian Idea in Catholic Art 
and in Protestant Culture," has a theological appearance in 
the title ; but there is no theological intention in either its 
conception or its discussion. I had a desire to take the 
subject in a broader view, and to speak on " Mediaeval Art 
and Modern Culture ;" but this scope was too extensive for 
the limits of a single essay, also for the limits of my power. 
As my object is to indicate certain social and aesthetic tend- 
encies in modern Christendom, the more specific designa- 
tion includes the general idea, and is closer to my purpose. 
There are in modern Christendom, independently of polemics 
and theology, a Catholic tendency and a Protestant tend- 
ency, that is emotional and artistic — this, rationalistic and 
intellectual. If these do not always blend together, they 
very thoroughly modify and influence each other. The 
Catholic element is acted on by the Protestant ; the Prot- 
estant is acted on by the Catholic. Neither is what it would 
be without the other ; and Christian society is not the same 
with both as it would be with only one of them. By going 
back towards their sources, we learn to discriminate each 
tendency in its methods, agencies, and instruments. But 
in carrying such tendencies as these back to their simple 
condition, they connect themselves more and more directly 
with religion. In religion it is, however, that we find the 



Catholic Jlrt and Protestant Culture. 317 

origin of whatever gives force and expression to man's 
highest mental nature. In this we find the elementary roots 
of all man's subsequent and complicated growth ; and there 
is nothing that we in the highest sense call civilized which 
has not primitively been deemed sacred. So, when civilized 
life is most radically analyzed, its most vital principles are 
found in the depths of the religious hfe. 

One of the most instructive sentiments is the religious. 
After the first aftections and wants, it is the earliest that 
man feels — whether we regard man in the life of the indi- 
vidual or in the life of history. Nay, these affections and 
wants help, through their own experience, to unfold the reli- 
gious sentiment. They suggest to the soul the mysteries 
which surround it in universal being, and they stir within 
the soul the sense of its infinite relations to these mysteries. 
Thought, conscience, passion, weakness, desire, in revealing 
man to himself, reveal the universe to him also ; and there is 
that which is neither himself nor the universe included in the 
revelation. The infinite unknown the soul does not fail to 
seek for. Grossness, ignorance, terror, mistake, may darken 
the search, and hinder full discovery, but still there is the 
inward craving in the soul which only the absolute and the 
perfect can satisfy. This craving is in the pang of grief, it 
is in the throb of joy — in the longings of hope, in the lamen- 
tations of disappointment ; and no sin, no crime, can utterly 
stifle or destroy it. Such cravings leave within it the con- 
viction that life is surrounded by a potency which is meas- 
ureless and invisible. Out of this consciousness comes wor- 
ship. "Worship is, therefore, man's first ideal utterance, and 
art is one medium of it. Art is born out of worship ; the 
altar is before the throne, and a temple precedes a theatre. 
The gods have statues before heroes have them ; and hymns 
are older than battle-chants. This is no matter of conven- 
tion or of culture — no transient condition of social order; 



318 Giles' Lectures. 

it belongs to the original and everlasting inspiration of the 
soul. So it is now, as it was at the beginning. Revolutions 
in civilization have made in this no change. Now, in the 
multiplications of mechanism, man in his religious nature 
has the same order that he had before the invention of the 
shuttle or the j)lough ; for the soul is ever nearer to eternity 
than it is to time — nearer to infinity than it is to place — 
nearer to God than it is to man. The stars above are closer 
to mind than the bounds of parish ; the immortal with the 
mind more intimate than yesterday ; " and God is all in all." 
God is with the soul everywhere and always. Socrates and 
Plato, even Moses and Paul, are afar off, and at distant inter- 
vals. Thus that which is most transcendent in nature and 
relation is often to feeling the nearest and the simplest. 
The child conceives of heaven, but of the political state he 
has no idea. He knows of dut.y, but not of citizenship ; and 
the authority of his father never suggests to him the au- 
thority of the magistrate. Religion, and not government, 
is the first ideal instinct of humanity, and this instinct is 
shaped into art before other instincts are spiritualized into 
law. We are, howevei', concerned with religious art only as 
it is connected with the Christian Idea. The dawn of Chris- 
tian Art was as lowly as Christianity itself. Christianity was 
born in a stable, and the art to which Christ's religion gave 
birth was cradled in dens and caves. The origin of art in 
the Western Church is traced to the catacombs of Rome ; 
and it is only in the Western Church that Christian art 
ascended to triumphant eminence. These catacombs of 
Rome, as all know, consist of hollow passages, which extend 
for miles in the vicinity of the Eternal City. They were 
caverns made by the quarrying out of stone. The origin of 
them lies beyond all history and all tradition in the remotest 
antiquity. Accessible portions of these excavations had 
been used even by pagan Romans as places of sepulture ; 



Catholic Art and Protestant Culture. 319 

and at the opening of the Christian era portions of them 
were still worked for the materials of building. The toils- 
men so emploj-ed were, it is supposed, among the first 
Roman converts to Christianity, and the}' belonged to the 
most destitute classes of the community. They were famil- 
iar with those sunless and dreary labyrinths ; and when 
the storm of persecution sorely raged, they knew where to 
find shelter for themselves, and where to provide it for 
others. The catacombs, accordingly, became the resort of 
multitudes who were exposed to danger. When the danger 
had passed away, the catacombs became sanctuaries, hal- 
lowed with memories of those who had suffered for the 
truth, and were lield in reverence as consecrated by the 
sanctity of such blessed memories. There it was that 
Christian art had its birth and its beginning. It did 
not arise from taste ; for those poor converts were the 
rudest of the rude. It did not arise from luxury, for 
these were the children of want — predestinated heirs of 
poverty — naked, shivering orphans, whom a proud and lust- 
ful city scorned and oppressed. As Httle as did Christian 
art in this its unconscious origin arise from any innate 
sense of beauty, from any impulse to ideal forms, any 
craving after what is fair to the eye, and what is eupho- 
nious to the ear, ancient Romans, at best, wanted native 
sensibiHties for art, and those were ancient Romans of the 
most uncultivated order. But as their hearts prompted, 
they traced on the walls of these prisons and burial places 
signs of faith, and words of hope, of prayer, of lamentation, 
and of triumph. The earlier figures are most distorted and 
unshapely. The inscriptions evince the baldest ignorance 
of spelling, phrase, and grammar. What prompted those 
lowly men and women to daub these uncoiith images and 
to scrawl these barbarian words ? They were so prompted 
by the urgency of feelings, which, to those untaught records 



820 Gikfi' Lfdurcs. 

and delineations, j^avo a glory tbat no merely civilized genius 
can give to its most magniticent creations — a splendor of 
lioly and heavenly lustre which shone divinely to the eye of 
faith. These delineations belonged to the movements of the 
soul — deeper than any earthly desire — deeper than taste — 
deeper than any longing for the beautiful. They came 
from the innermost recesses of the heart — and from the 
depths of love, and faith, and hope. They came not forth 
at the bidding of imagination or of sense, but in answer to 
yearning instincts of the spiritual, inward, and immortal 
life. 

Household artcction traces images of kindred; holy admi- 
ration delineates the forms of martyrs; pious meditation 
;lraws pictured scenes from Scripture ; and that desire of the 
soul to indicate ideas which shun expression, or which tran- 
scend it, has here in all directions inscribed its emblems 
in mystic mark and in sacramental emblem. In these dis- 
mal caverns, I repeat, which to early Roman Christians were 
at once dwellings, tombs, and temples, we have the germs 
of Christian art, the source of its power, and the reason of 
its existence. For what is the source of its power ? Faith 
— faith in the invisible and the deathless ; hope that grows 
out of faith ; and love, that is the life of all. In such spir- 
ituid principles we find the interpretation of every image 
and superscription which this imprisoned Chi'istianity left 
behind. Ever there is a meaning in them of affection, 
homage, or aspiration, that is not born of the blood, that 
does not belong unto the world, and that looks beyond the 
boundary of time. This interpretation of Christian art in 
its origin gives also the reasons of its existence. It was 
intended to perpetvxate the knowledge of the good, and to 
do them reverence ; it was intended to recall the wonders 
and the worthies of the past ; it was intended to shadow or 
suggest the mysterious and the infinite. Christian art is. 



Catholic Jirt and Protestant Culture. 321 

therefore, in its general conditions, commemorative, repre- 
sentative, or symbolic. All these conditions are essentially 
included in the strug-gling but soul-felt manipulations of the 
catacombs. We find in them the elements of commemora- 
tive art, in pictures of departed relatives and of slaughtered 
saints ; of representative art, in various scenes from the Old 
and New Testament ; of symbolic art, in manifold devisings, 
of which the sacred import is Christian salvation and eter- 
nity. And so, if at first Christian preaching was not in the 
world's wisdom, as little was Christian art in the splendor of 
man's invention or in the cunning of his skill. And yet, 
from these dark vaults, from the effigies scraped upon 
their walls, from hymns that died away in their infinitude of 
desolation, there gradually came forth a spirit of art which, 
in architecture, sculpture, painting, and music, became the 
wonder and the spell of nations. 

As we advance into the Middle Ages, we observe the 
Christian idea unfolding itself in art of imposing majesty 
and of exceeding beauty. First, naturally in architecture. 
The architecture which ultimately prevailed in the sacred 
buildings of Western Europe was that which we call the 
Gothic. I enter into no discussion on its name, its origin, its 
varieties, and its transitions. The distinctive spirit which 
pervades all its forms, is what we have to consider. That, I 
would say, was the spirit of mystery and of aspiration. A 
Gothic cathedral seemed an epitome of creation. In its vast- 
ness it was a sacramental image of the universe ; in its diver- 
sity it resembled nature, and in its unity it suggested God. 
But it suggested man too. It was the work of man's hands, 
shaping the solemn visions of his soul into embodied adora- 
tion. It was therefore the grandest symbol of union be- 
tween the divine and human which imagination ever con- 
ceived, which art ever molded; and it was in being symbolic 
of such union, that it had its Christian peculiarity. The 



322 dik's' Lectures. 

mold of its structuro was a perpetual commemoration of 
Christ's siiHerings, and a Hubliinc publication of Lis g"lor3^ 
Its ground plan in the ilj^uro of a cross "vvas cniblcniaiiit of 
Calvary. Its })innacl(!S, wiiicih tapered tlirouj^li tlui (blonds 
and vanished into lij^ht, poijitcid to those heavens to which the 
crucilied had ascended. Hero is the jnystery of death and 
sorrow. And that mystery is intensifKuI in the snlTcirini^-s of 
Christ ; hence is the aspiration of life and hope, as it is ex- 
alted in the victory of Christ. 

In yet other ways mj'stery and aspindion are sugf^-csted in 
the sacred structures of Gothic architecture. I parlicularly 
refer to structures of ancient and majestic greatness. The 
mere bulk of one of those seems at the same time to over- 
})ower the mind, and yet to lift it up to heaven. The mere 
personal presence of a human being seems lost in its mighty 
space ; but while the body is dwarfed, the soul is magnilicd. 
As wo look and wonder, the thought over comes that man it 
was who conceived, consolidated, uprearod those monu- 
ments of immensity; and the spirit of his innnortal being 
seems to throb in every stone. Hero, then, is the mystery 
of man in his lowliness and his grandeur, in his dust and 
dignity, touching (larth and heaven— fe(^ble as an insect, and 
mighty as an angel. Again, if wo look through a vast cathe- 
dral in its many and dim-lit passag(!s, our sight, " in wander- 
ing mazes lost," llnds no end and no beginning. Then does 
the thought occur to us, that, if wo cannot with the eye take 
in the windings of a church, how infinitely less can we with 
the mind discover all the Avays of Clod. Who, we ask our- 
selves, can lind out the Almighty to perfection? Such 
knowledge is too wonderful for us. "We cannot attain unto 
it." It is as high as heaven, what can wo do? Deeper than 
hell, what can we know ? The measure thereof is longer 
than the earth and broader than the sea. Wo feel that we 
are as nothing when wo try to fathom God's counsol.s, to 



Catholic Jilt and Pruteslant OnUtirc. 328 

conceive of all tlie methods of his wisdom amidst the in- 
finites of the universe, or the secrecies of his providence. It 
is all mystery and immensity. And while the cathedral 
gives i;s in one aspect a sense of sacred mystery, in another 
it gives us an impression of the boundless. Its awful spaces 
of naves and aisles carry our tlnnights away into the ampli- 
tude of God's dominion. Its bold and lofty arches lift them 
up to the battlements of his throne. The mere gloom of a 
silent cathedral has power in it. In the stillness of its spa- 
cious obscurity, solemn voices awaken in the heart that have 
impressive meanings for the soul. When we behold these 
structures in their solidity, as looking onward to centuries, 
or as having survived centuries, they draw us into commun- 
ion with the mysteries of duration, and, pacing within them, 
reading the inscriptiojis that recall the memory of the dead, 
we turn from what has perished in the past to that which is 
eternal with everlasting life. And when we gaze upward 
and outside to their dizzy elevation, to their pinnacles, which 
gx'ow beneath from massive towers into points invisible 
towards the stars, we mount witli them, stage by stage, until 
we, like them, lose ourselves in the skies. We rest not in 
the sentiment which these structures inspire; we think also 
of the sentiment by which they were created — of that in- 
ward and living faith whence they arose, and to which they 
box'e witness. The Egyptians had temples of astonishing 
magnitude and of ponderous design. But spirituality the 
Egyptians had none. The great ideas which filled the Egyp- 
tian mind, that mind endeavored to actualize in outward 
vastness and sohdity. The result was, that in the work of 
Egyptian art, matter and form arc not vivified by sjjirit, but 
spirit is buried in bulk. Sculptured blocks, quarried tem- 
ples, heavy pyramids, do not arouse the soul; they despond- 
ently oppress it. They give no sense of motion ; they 
indicate a duration, not of life, but of stability. In truth, 



824 Giles' Lectures. 

stability was the Egyptian's only idea of duration. Continu- 
ance in being was to him associated with compactness, and 
nonentity with dissolution. Accordingly, his art was most 
directed to cause things to hold together. "When the breath 
was out of the body, he made a mummy of it. For the 
same reason he gave supreme attention in his buildings to 
all the means of massive consolidation. His mummies have 
been as lasting as his buildings, and his buildings have been 
as inanimate as his mummies. They are all of them but 
signs and sacraments of death. Death was in them fro^n 
the first, death has ever brooded over them, and death is 
all that they suggest. The Egyptian mind had, in its way, 
a sense of mystery, but it had no sense of aspiration. The 
mystery was all darkness, with no hght beyond ; and the 
mystery implied in its sacred edifices is not one of mind, of 
thought, of awe, but one of cunning, of concealment, and 
of fraud. Now, the Christian cathedral gains in force of 
life as it gains in majesty of size; it is mystic with the mys- 
tery of the soul, and it is durable as the symbol of eternity. 
It has compass and firmness on the earth, but then it is 
graceful in beauty as it rises. In the last particidar, as well 
as in its expanse of measure and its depth of shadow, it is 
in contrast with the Grecian temple. The Grecian temple 
is of an exquisite simplicity — a most lovely and fair creation. 
It is within the grasp of a single view, and satisfies at once 
the senses and the mind. It lies low along the earth, and 
calls forth no ideas but those which the earth can answer. 
It was not so with the Christian cathedral. To the multi- 
tudes which it gathered into its courts, it shadowed forth 
things which the senses could not apprehend, and it points 
to an existence far away above the earth. Must not faith 
and hope in this unseen existence have been concerned in 
the creation of the Christian cathedi-al? Was it not the 
soul, reaching to its sublimest strivings, which placed turret 



Catholic Jirt and Protestant Culture. 325 

above tower and spire above turret, until the cross, over all, 
seemed to melt away into immortal ligLt. I love with the 
strength of early love the sacred structures of the Middle 
Ages. I speak of them, not with the knowledge of science, 
but with the feelings of memory. Ireland, the country of 
my birth and of my youth, is covered with the ruins of olden 
sanctuaries, and in their sombre silence many an hour of my 
early life was passed. The rustic parish church, the ponti- 
fical cathedral, though all unroofed, were even in their des- 
olation lovely; and more days than I can now remember 
they were my lonely shelter from the sun of summer noon- 
tide. Then, in such visions as under the spells of hoary 
Time the young imagination dreams, I have built these ruins 
up again — flung out the sound of matin chimes upon the 
morning air — awakened once more, at sunset, the vesper 
hymn — called from the sleeping dust prelates, priests, chor- 
isters, congregations — bade the long procession move — 
caused the lofty altar to blaze with light — listened to the 
chanted Mass — heard the swelling resj^onse of surpliced 
singers, and thrilled with the reverberation of the mighty 
organ. Even now, iu hours of idle musing, the dream comes 
back, and the form of a pine-tree, projected on the sunshine 
of Maine, or of New Hampshire, or of Massachusetts, can 
still cheat me for a moment to believe it the shadow of an 
ancient spire. Such temples, though silent, had a language 
of deep meaning ; silent to the ear, their language was to 
the soul. They told me of the power, the earnestness of 
faith. They told me of men in other days, strong in convic- 
tion, patient in hope, and persevering in believing work. 
They told me of the ancient dead. They told me how gen- 
erations have come and passed away like the changes of a 
dream — how centuries are less than seconds on the horologe of 
the universe. They proclaimed eternity in the presence of the 
tomb, and announced immortality on the ashes of the grave. 



326 Ctiles' Lectures. 

Sculpture is the natural associate of architecture. Chris- 
tian sculpture was at first principally monumental. The 
figure was carved flat upon the tomb, and was merely an 
effigy of the dead. But as inspiration advanced into life, 
skill advanced into power ; then the figure was raised. At 
length it was wholly severed from the tomb ; and, from being 
a dead body, it became a living soul. At this point, the 
figure was fully under the control of the plastic imagination, 
and might be molded as Christian art should desire or 
design. Sculpture has not, however, answered to the Chris- 
tian spirit. Christian art has not used it much. Sculp- 
ture was better fitted for pagan art — better fitted to image 
forth the strength and the beauty which the Greeks deified 
and adored, than the spiritual purity which Christian art 
labors to express. The Greeks, too, giving sj)ecial value to 
the body, had enthusiasm for the art which idealized it ; 
and those who had genius to idealize the body, had all 
opportunities of seeing it to perfection in Grecian discipline 
and in Grecian games. When Grecian genius, therefore, 
failed in the power of creative originality, sculpture, as a 
living force, seemed to be exhausted. Not only must a 
new impulse have a new invention, a new idea must have a 
new art. Christianity demanded a medium more subtile 
than sculpture, and more delicate, less palpable, and of 
greater variety. This it found in painting — an art which 
made the surface tell to the soul what the solid could not, 
the secrets of the heart in the tintings of the cheek, and the 
visions of thought in the lights of the eye. Christian art in 
painting brought the holy into unison with the beautiful, 
and made it seem a new revelation to the world. It raised 
loveliness above the region of desire, and crowned it with the 
lustre of an eternal sanctity. Sacred painting has done an 
immortal good — if in nothing else, in showing how grand, 
how sublime, how godlike may be the face of man, how 



Catliolic Jirt and Protestant Culture. 327 

angelic tlie face of woman, in the imagination of a noble soul. 
But, more particularly than any, music is a religious art ; for, 
beyond any, it belongs to the infinite. It excludes all that 
is logical and restrictive — all that is combative and contro- 
versial. In the undefined and the undefinable above, it is 
purely in its element. "Without bound or body, it belongs 
only to emotion, and is truly the spirit of movement and of 
soul. In union with Christian inspiration it is that music 
has most revealed its mystic power — shown that there is a 
spirit of soul which has its only revelation in a spirit of 
sound. The organ is hardly less, a creation of Christisan 
genius than is the cathedral itself ; and if the cathedral 
would be bare without statues and paintings, without the 
organ it would be dumb. Each of these arts separately 
grand, all of them answer in excellent harmony united. A 
cathedral amplifies the soul ; a noble statue calms it ; glori- 
ous pictures illumine it ; sublime music inspires it ; and thus, 
by the majesty of the temple, the embodied eloquence of its 
sculptures, the saintly beauty of its paintings, the divine 
harmonies, the subtile rapture of its music, the consecrated 
genius of a thousand years ministers to the life of a moment, 
and makes the life of that moment seem in its power an 
image of eternity. Thus art, in the fourfold manifestation 
to which we usually confine it — namely, architecture, sculp- 
ture, painting, music — become, according to the manner 
of Catholicism, in some sense a sacramental ministration 
of the Christian idea. How this came to be so we can only 
learn in the past of Christendom. Classic civilization had 
influence on one side, the Hebrew ritual had influence on the 
other, and no long time was required to multiply liturgic cer- 
emonies, and to heighten external pomp, when Christianity 
had become the religion of the Eoman empire. Something, 
too, miast be ascribed to the necessity of circumstances. 
Early Christianity could not have been to any extent a 



328 Giles' Lectures. 

religion that could be learned oi- felt, as now, from books ; 
nor could it have been to many, in any way, a religion of 
documents. In a great degree it must have been a religion 
of tradition. Apostolic epistles were indeed among the 
churches, narrations also of Christ's ministry and sufferings, 
but the mass of believers must have had most of their knowl- 
edge by transmitted report and by public instruction. As 
this would hardly be enough to give permanent nurture to 
emotion to keep faith alive and zeal in action, symbolic 
rites, delineation of sacred persons and events, and the im- 
posing awe of grand and consecrated edifices would be 
demanded for an effectual ministry to the general religious 
feeliug of the era. "When the Scriptures were gathered into 
a collective unity, when the canon had been determined, and 
the sanction of ecclesiastical authority stamped upon it, 
manuscripts Avere yet few, and readers were not many. The 
Scriptures were, indeed, studied ; they were abundantly 
quoted in the writings of the ancient Fathers, in those also 
of the Mediaival theologians ; but religious inspiration was 
still of necessity imparted to the people by means of oral 
teaching and visible impression. These remarks are suffi- 
ciently ample to account for the relation which I have been 
tracing between the Christian Idea and Catholic Art. 

But in course of time another instrumentality came into 
action in a merely mechanical invention. We hear of late 
years much glorification of machinery and mechanism. Of 
themselves, they prove nothing but the gi'owth of human 
want ; and the nature of the progress that they indicate 
must be determined b}' the nature of the want for which 
they provide, or in which tliey originate. "Wonder, in our 
day, is in constant excitement at the never-ceasing applica- 
tions of science to the uses of life. Like life itself, they 
are of all gradations, from the trilling and the minute to the 
magnificent and the sublime. Yet in all this infinite diver- 



Catholic Jlrt and Protestant Culture. ;i21) 

sification of thought, cunning, and contrivance, you will find 
that, primaril}', the uses which they mostly serve are those 
of physical desire or of social convenience — those of need, 
of comfort, and of luxuiy — those of interchange, of inter- 
course, and of vanity. The uses to which mechanical inven- 
tions minister are seldom directly intellectual or spiritual ; 
they seldom originate in wants of the soul, and seldom in 
their influence do they act upon such wants. But imme- 
diately out of such wants came the invention of printing ; 
and on such wants most profoundly is the agency of its 
influence. Judged, therefore, by the noble need from which 
it sprung, and the order of desire that it gratifies, among 
all the many inventions which the uneasy brain of man has 
sought out, printing may claim to be of a special dignity. 
It may not, indeed, improve the quality of writings, but it 
gives them infinity in quantity. Like the miracle of the 
prophet which made a single cake and a cruise of oil aflford 
sustenance to a household for many days, the press makes 
the same ideas the mental nutriment of millions ; and for all 
generations, it immortalizes such as are worthy to live. 

The Book, the great instrument of modern culture, was 
born of the press. The Manuscript had only a secret life — 
a life with no large or open atmosphere — a life which did 
not breathe fully, and had no power of liberty or of expres- 
sion. The Manuscript belonged to the scholar and the 
priest ; the Book became the pi-operty of mankind. The 
Christian idea in Protestant culture made the sacred Book 
its only authority, and found in that alone the divine source 
of all which most ennobles and most sanctifies existence. 

I propose to dwell on some relations of this principle to 
Art and Culture. 

Protestant cultui'e began in resistance to ecclesiastical 
unity of power. The tendency of it, therefore, was to dis- 
sociate the Christian idea from mystic symbol and outward 



330 Giles' Lectures. 

type. It appealed from usage and tradition to individual 
judgment and direct interpretation of the written word. 
The tendency was first of all unfavorable to grand eccle- 
siastical architecture. The book had become the stronger 
rival of the building — not the sacred book merely of the 
sacred building, but the secular book also of the secular 
building. Victor Hugo makes his monk, Claude FroUs, 
say, in the fifteenth century, m Paris, as he points with 
one hand to a printed book, and with the other to the 
Cathedral of Notre Dame, "This will kiU that." Printing 
had recently been invented. The letter was to take the 
place of the symbol ; the book was gradually to subvert 
the building. Printing, as Victor Hugo generalizes the 
statement, was to kill architecture. Printing interfered 
with architecture in general. But Protestant culture, with 
the Bible for its centre, was necessarily fatal to church archi- 
tecture in particular. The book did in this case certainly 
kill the building. First, it deprived the building of spiritual 
import ; and a religious building without spiritual import, is 
void of life ; it becomes mere space, bulk, and form, with 
only an aesthetic value. The sacred building is indeed by 
Protestantism consecrated to worship, but it is no longer in 
itself a thing of worship. It is made for people to assemble 
in and pray, but it is no longer in its own silent majest}'^ a 
mighty and perpetual act of prayer. 

The building, while yet the book was not among the 
people, was not only significant, but also, with its history, 
its traditions, its legends, its pictures, monuments, and 
statues, had excitement for the intellect, and was in its 
way a teacher. But when the book prevailed, the building 
lost its inspiration, lost its function of suggestive ministry 
to belief, and feeling was at an end. So, soon as the 
authority of the book supersedes the authority of the 
Church, the book kills the building, which has in that 



Catholic Art and Protestant Culture. 831 

authority the very Kfe and reason of its being-. This influ- 
ence is altogether independent of that polemic and destruc- 
tive temper with which the Christian idea in Protestant 
culture was at first associated. Such temper belongs to 
every great spiritual as well as every great social revolution. 
The early Christians, when they had power, spared neither 
the buildings nor the books of pagans. To earnest and 
devout minds, the creation of pagan genius seemed all the 
offspring of impurest wickedness ; and so, by means of 
Christian zeal, pagan hterature as well as pagan art suf- 
fered calamitous devastation. The teaching of the Re- 
formers, especially that of Calvin, aroused at first a similar 
antagonism against Catholic art. Calvin was a man of logi- 
cal and stern intellect. Void of sensibility, barren of imagi- 
nation, he never arose to the rapture of passionate emotion 
— never had glimpses of the poet's heaven in the vision of 
ideal beauty. Luther was a man of different spirit. He 
was a man of sensitive and impassioned nature— rich in 
imagination, large in his capacities of life, large in his ca- 
pacities of engagement. Such a man has always a living 
interest in art. He had that sense of the grand to which 
architecture ministers. He loved painting, and was in 
music an enthusiast. Though he renounced the authority 
of the Roman Church, he did not cast off all his historical 
sympathies. He burned with no iconoclastic fierceness. He 
still maintained a Ritual, and was favorable to a moderate 
pomp in worship. None the less, the influence of his doc- 
trine was unfavorable to religious architecture. It may 
indeed be said, that art had already reached the utmost 
vigor of its creative spirit, and would henceforth, indepen- 
dently of any theological influence, have entered, as it did 
enter, on deterioration and decline. But the conservative 
spirit of sentiment and of memory cherishes what art has 
already accomplished, when the creative spirit of genius, 



332 Giles' Lectures. 

with its fertile invention, with its grace and force of execu- 
tion, is no longer active. Of this conservative spirit early 
Protestantism had none ; and though later Protestantism 
has, in some degree, returned to it, early Protestantism 
was, in general, its determined opponent. The line of tradi- 
tion was broken. The continuity of feehng which flows 
with the sentiment of one age into the life of another, 
which carries the unfinished purpose of one generation to 
that which next succeeds it — this continuity was inter- 
rupted, vital supply failed, then set in decline and death. 
Old buildings were not rej)aired ; buildings in progress 
were not completed ; completed buildings were void of 
use or object ; invention was no longer demanded, and 
originality expired. 

Thus, secondly, " the book kills the building," because it 
subverts the conditions which create and sustain the build- 
ing. A great edifice is not only a great unity — it is also the 
result and the creation of a great unity. A mighty religious 
edifice presupposes unity as a necessary condition to its 
existence. It requires unity of combination ; unity of com- 
bination requires unity of purpose ; unity of purpose re- 
quires unity of sentiment ; unity of sentiment requires unity 
of doctrine ; unity of doctrine requires unity of belief, at 
least it requires unity of assent. Now, in all these particu- 
lars, Protestant culture leads not to unity, but to division. 
Such must be the case, since the centre of it is individual 
judgment and private interpretation. The book here must 
kiU the building — since it must break up that unity in 
which alone the building can originate, or by which it can 
be sustained. To erect a cathedral demanded the contribu- 
tions of generations. But Protestant culture unfolds itself 
variously from age to age. A cathedral stood in the midst 
of a province, and had space to hold the multitudes which 
crowded to its worship. But wherever there is actual men- 



Catholic Art and Protestant Culture. 333 

tal freedom in religion, Protestantism produces in every 
community a variety of theological oj)inions, and each 
opinion has its own organization. It can gather its mem- 
bers only from limited space, and it has occasion rarely for 
any but a moderate edifice. Protestantism breaks up unity 
of district and dogma. It broke up Western Christendom 
into religious nationalities ; it broke up the nationalities 
into sects ; the sects it still continues to divide and modify. 
We can easily see that such a tendency can admit of no 
church architecture ; which needs a perfect unity of senti- 
ment for its inspiration, and the sublimity of vast dimen- 
sions for its power. 

Hence, thirdly, " the book kills the building," because it 
takes away its uses. The Christian idea in Protestant cul- 
ture insists on simplicity of worship, and gives emphatic 
importance to the sermon. The Christian idea, therefore, 
in Protestant culture demands a building not so much for 
ritual as for mental purposes. A Protestant temple is not 
intended for magnificent ceremonial pomps. It wants no 
lengthened aisles for great processions, no chapels for sepa- 
rate services, no deep retreats for the confessional; it wants 
no mystic gloom to contrast with the illuminations of lamps 
and tapers, with the brilliant decoration of the altars, or 
with the sparkhng and splendid vestments of the priesthood ; 
but it does want a construction which will enable every one 
to hear the preacher and to see him. The conditions of a 
good building, as laid down by Sir Henry Wotton, are, 
" commodity, firmness, delight." To these we may add two 
general rules prescribed by the late Mr. Pugin, the greatest 
modern master of ecclesiastical architecture : " First, there 
should be no features about a building which are not neces- 
sary for convenience, construction, or propriety; second, all 
ornament should consist of enrichment of the essential con- 
struction of the building.'' Let Protestantism be true to 



334 Giles^ Lectures. 

these rules, then it will be true to itself, and it will be true to 
nature. But it cannot be true to them in the use of Gothic 
structui'e, without considerable adaptation. An order of 
architecture we often observe in modern churches which 
should not be called the G-othic, but the grotesque. Now it 
is wall and buttress, run to seed in spire ; then it is a dismal 
vault, crowded with thick and stxinted pillars ; here it is a 
gaudy nondescript, about which one is uncertain whether it 
was originally intended for worship or the opera. Some- 
times it seems like the realization of a drowsy dream, and 
again it has the perplexed confusion of a delirious vision. 
Used Avisely, Gothic architecture has the inspiration of mys- 
tic genius, and, as associated with venerable memories, it is a 
fitting and suggestive form for a Christian temple. But in 
architecture for worship there should, above all things, be 
truthfulness. No pretence should be there — no deception — ■ 
no vanity. A sacred building ought itself to be a sacrament 
of veracity, of rectitude, of integrit}^; it ought to be so in 
structure, in material, in ornament. It should symbolize 
throughoiit a sincere and right spirit ; otherwise it can have 
no beauty, and least of all the beauty of holiness. One 
ought not to enter through a portico of shabby splendor to 
hear the levities of the world censured; one ought not to 
have their boards made counterfeits for solid marble, when 
he is to listen to denunciations against hypocrisy. The 
house of prayer should be built, as it should be entered, in 
a spirit of truth and a spirit of worshij). The humblest 
substance will take the shape of beauty, but if not, it is bet- 
ter to have unsightly honesty than seemly falsehood. The 
spirit of beauty is indeed divine as well as the spirit of 
truth, because both are equally from God; but if semblance 
is put for fact, then the form of beauty, like the form of 
truth, is a lie. "VVe might use abstract arguments for pic- 
tures and statues in churches — but to what purpose ? AVe 



Catholic Art and Protestant Culture. 335 

might ask, why should an ilhistrated church be evil, and an 
illustrated Bible be excellent ? Wh}^ should a statue or a 
picture which has the beauty of meaning be wrong, and carv- 
ing and coloring, which have only the beauty of ornament, 
be right ? If we commemorate by art the worker, the states- 
man, the patriot, the magistrate, why should we not the 
pro2)het, the apostle, the maz'tyr? If the soldier has his 
statue, why should not the saint? If the battle-field may 
be delineated, to how much better purpose may be " The 
Last Supper ?" And if art may thus minister to civic virtue 
in secular places, why should it not minister to religious 
sentiment in sacred places ? But, I repeat, to what end are 
such questions ? When feeling desires such applications of 
genius in religion, it will have them ; but Avhile feeling is 
against them, no mere reasoning avails. Protestantism is 
not, however, without pious artistic genius. The magnifi- 
cent Thorwalsden devoted some of his sublimest sculptures 
to the Protestant sanctuary; and Ruskin, alike profound in 
reverence, in feeling, and in knowledge, is not only a most 
original critic on art in general, but a most eloquent writer 
on sacred art in particular, and he brings to his grand voca- 
tion the harmonized endowment of the poet, the thinker, 
the orator, and the Christian. The masterpieces which the 
genius of early times consecrated to the altar, the genius 
of no other times will probably ever equal. But the pop- 
ular and difiusive spirit of the new civilization does not 
allow their loveliness to be in vain. By prints and copies, it 
sheds some light of their beauty throughout the world. "VVe 
are also to consider that the genius which had once worked 
mainly for the sanctuary has gone abroad into common life, 
and gives itself more widely to the varied interests of hu- 
manity. One art there is centred in primitive emotion that is 
always young, always pure— which belongs to no age, and is 
confined to no creed. That art is Music. Of all arts, music 



336 Giles' Lectures. 

is tho most sympathetic and the most human ; it is also the 
most incorruptible, the most divine ; and because thus at 
once sensuous and spiritual, it is universal and immortal 

w35sthetic genius, which the Church almost entirely mono- 
polized, had done its greatest works before the Protestant 
idea had come into distinct form ; and that idea only 
noticeably marked a general movement of which the Ref- 
ormation was a special portion. The European mind had 
in many directions begun to question tradition and aiithor- 
ity, to loosen itself from the visible and emotional, to give 
itself to the promptings of doubt, and to the searchings 
of the inquiring intellect. The invention of printing inten- 
sified this tendency. The Eeformation, aided by the agency 
of printing, still further intensified it, and for a period 
gave it the concentration of a theological controversy, and 
the compass of a social revolution — the tendency of which. 
Protestantism was at first the most decisive form. Prot- 
estant culture has ever since assumed to express and to 
direct. The aim of this culture is inward, indiA-idual, 
intellectual, practical. As it withdi-cw the mind fi'om 
extex'nal ministries, it directed attention to forces that 
are spiritual. As faith was not to rely on ecclesiastical 
authority, but in the written word, that every one should 
be able to read the written word, became, according to 
Protestant logic, almost a necessary condition of rehg- 
ious or moral life. Protestantism was bound, therefore, 
by its own first and most essential principle to provide 
universally for such requisite ability. But in this, as in all 
that is human, fact will not bear close comparison with 
theory; and in spite of theory, there may be found within 
the dominion and history of Protestantism dense masses of 
popular ignorance, and gross neglect of popular instruction. 
Still, to the degree that Protestant culture is active and has 
effect, it tends to diffuse intelligence and develop individual- 



Catholic Jlrt and Protcslant Culture. 337 

ity. Individuality of character abounds in En<>li,sli litera- 
ture, especially in comedy and liunior. This is partly an 
(ilcmont of race ; but under Protestant culture, it seems to 
have attained a marvellous diversity. Individuality of 
ojiinion is (u)nstantly i\vxn\ not only in ceaseless conflicts of 
thought, but in oddity, obstinacy, dofj^matism, and stubb(_)rji 
pei-sonalify, which, though tlu^y may have been born of the 
blood, have l)een nurtured by the l)j-ain. Prot(!staid, culture 
tends to endless diversity. In the speculative sphere, there 
is no cud to its philosophical systems, nor, in the theological, 
to its religious sects. Above all, Protestant culture is hardly 
ever mystic, or thoughtless of the real. Idea, it insists, 
must pass into deed, science into the uses of life, and skill 
into productive labor. Faith is everything in the Protestant 
doctrine ; work is everything in Protestant practice. 

I have hero traced two tendencies of humanity within the 
sphere of Christendom — the lesthetic and emotional in 
Catholic art ; in Protestant culture, the intellectual and the 
practical. The Catholic idea and the Protestant idea can 
never, in religion, be theologically reconciled ; yet, in social 
civilization, the influence of both coujo together, intercom- 
mune, interjienetrato, and inutually receive and give power. 
Tlie Catholic idea allies itself with grace and d(!('])ens into 
sentiment ; the Prot(>stant idea allies itself with int(^llcc,t, 
wif-h will, and becomes realized in knowledge and activity. 
I, looking tolerantly on both, can scie in (Catholicity and 
Protestantism that which neither, from a pohnnic aspect, can 
see in the other. I can see de(^p spiritual suggestiveness in 
what is called the materialism of Catholicity. I can see 
grand and entrancing imagery in Avhat is called the bare 
intellectuality of Protestantism. I can well understand the 
power which a ritual and traditional Christianity can exer- 
cise over the soul as well as over the fancy and the heart. I 
can pn)f()undly feel hov/ the pool- man can be; lifted up 

15 



838 Giles' Lectures. 

by the cathedral dome, that seems an image of the sky — 
how the music that fills its majestic spaces may draw him 
from the grosser world, and make his bosom heave with 
a sense of heaven. I can well conceive how the dullest 
man can carry away affecting impressions from the services 
of a pictured and illuminated altar ; and how, in the toils 
of the day, in the visions of the night, his mind may call 
back those sights and sounds — hold communion through 
them with invisible perfection, and gain from the religious 
inspiration that may brighten and consecrate his life. I 
know that sense, imagination, feeling belong to our nature, 
and that therefore they must belong to rehgion. I see that 
all creation is rich with glorious phenomena that arouse, 
delight, and satisfy the spirit through the senses. If the 
heart is not in despair, if the blood is not perturbed, the eye 
cannot open but to look on beauty, the ear cannot listen but 
to hear music, and thought cannot be awake but to be alive 
to the infinite power with which it is encompassed. The 
ministeries of religion may surely be made consonant with 
the ministeries of nature, and those sacred arts may be 
employed in the service of rehgion which typify, in their 
inspired devisings, the sublimest and the loveliest works of 
God. 

On the other side, I can behold a solitai-y Protestant, as 
he leans over the Bible, translating the letter into vision, 
and presenting to the inward eye such images of wonder 
and of glovy as artists may indeed have conceived, but 
which art has never executed. He sees not only the patri- 
arch asleep with the sky for his canopy and the wilderness 
for his bed, but he enters into the patriarch's dreams, gazes 
into the open heavens, beholds the angels that ascend and 
descend by the ladder, which, resting iipon the earth, 
reaches up to the throne of God. He looks upon the 
majesty of ancient Egypt ; he witnesses the tragedies of 



Catholic Art and Protestant Culture. 339 

its guilt and of its punishment. He stands on tlie border 
of the Red Sea ; he sees a passage opened between two 
walls of water, which gives outlet to the hosts of Israel ; he 
sees these walls rush together in a roaring crash over the 
hosts of Egypt. He wanders through the desert with 
emancipated people, marvels at the pillar of cloud by day 
and the pillar of fire by night ; is awe-struck at the dark- 
ness of Mount Sinai, and quakes in the presence of its 
terrors. Then arise to his view the pictured history and 
hfe of the Hebrew nation : the wars of David — the power 
of Solomon — the glories of Jerusalem — the successive scenes 
in the awful drama of tragic prophecies and their tragic ful- 
fillment. The New Testament crowds his brain with ideals 
of sanctity and of beauty, as the Old Testament crowds it 
with those of sublimity and might. At last this imagination 
is lost in the mystic trance of the Apocalypse, that, with its 
stupendous and terrific imagery, embraces all duration, all 
space, all power, all existence, all destiny. Has not this 
man, too, a pictorial ministry — a medium through which his 
fancy is kindled into light, and opened to all that divinest 
light reveals ? Has he not also a grand cathedral, magnifi- 
cent in its riches and its pomp, with altars mountains high, 
and lights in suns and stars, and priesthoods as old as time, 
and liturgies of inspiration chanted for all humanity ? If 
this man can make the letter live, has he not that in the 
book before him which can call into exercise all within him 
that is most primitively and deeply, as well as spiritually 
and sublimely, artistic ? 

And here, in conclusion, is the very principle which gives 
to all art its power. The essence of art is in our own intui- 
tion and our instinct — and so it is that we ever live more in 
art than we do in science. Human life, in all that is sponta- 
neous, is, in its way, an artistic activity. Man is by his 
nature an artist : first, for the necessary and the useful ; 



340 Giles' Lectures. 

secondly, for the pleasurable and the ideal ; afterwards for 
both united, as occasion demands or prompts. By art man 
struggles out of savage need into civilized comfort ; exerts 
inventive skill, for subsistence and protection ; unfolds 
imagination for the joy of beauty. The life of art is inward, 
and it is infinite. It is inevitable to the consciousness of 
our own life ; and through our sense of art in nature we 
apprehend the life of God. It is by pictures in the mind 
that we recall the past. How busy imagination is in paint- 
ing — and how every faculty keeps her at work, especially 
memorj' and passion ! How rapidly she changes her repre- 
sentations ! How she brings the scenes of youth, the 
dreams of love, and all the drama of deeds and feelings! 
It is by pictures in the mind that we conceive of the distant 
as well as of the past, of the possible and the ideal. Thus 
what chambers of imagery our minds become, as we read 
history, travels, romance, poetry. It is by our sense of 
art, I have said, we apprehend in nature the life of God. 
In science we have the laws of God in nature ; but it 
is in our sense of art that we feel his life in the infinite 
grandeur and beauty of the universe. How wonderful this 
grandeur, and how exhaustless this beauty ! Think on the 
the pomp of heaven, and on the glory of this rounded earth 
— on earth and heaven, ever moving in communion, and at 
every point, through every season, through every second, 
presenting pictures which fill all space with splendor! — in 
which we might reverently say, that God's imagination 
comes into vision, and shows itself to sight. The sun him- 
self, enthroned afar off though he is in the midst of the 
worlds, is a most excellent likeness-taker. As he shines 
equally on the just and on the unjust, so does he impartially 
paint the homely and the fair, the youthful and the aged. 
With strictest rectitude, he paints them as they are. The 
poor he does not disfigure, and the rich he does not flatter. 



Catholic Art and Protestant Culture. 341 

And nature lives to the sense of art as well through the ear 
as through the eye ; gives it music in the ocean, in the tor- 
rent, iu the air, in the voices of life ; and nature in all, 
•whether to the eye or to the ear, gives by this sense of 
art a sense also of the divine. There is then a spirit of art 
which is primitively and transcendently religious ; and if 
there was no temple built with hands, souls that could rise 
into exalted worship would find a temple for God in the 
hollow sky, and pictures for the temple in all that the sun 
illumes, in all that the firmament displays ; and priesthood 
in all pure hearts, and liturgies in all worthy aspirations 
and anthems, choruses and hymns in the sea, in the winds, 
in the young raven's cry, in the breathing of a mother's 
love, in the whisjoers of a mother's prayer. 




THE COST OF WAR. 



My subject is, The Cost of War. 

War is a matter of great diversity in human history. 
I would hke to discuss it in its variety of forms, principles, 
changes, characteristics, and conditions. Such a discussion 
vrould open a wide field of interesting contemplation, and 
one not less sad than interesting — a field indeed glorious 
with sublime heroism and achievement, but also dark with 
wickedness and woe. It is a field that we have here no 
time to survey. Such a survey would embrace the whole 
course of public strife, from the first battles with clubs to 
the later battles which tax the utmost resources of human 
intellect and human pi'owess. And we should have also to 
enter into a moral analysis, and discuss the distinctions 
between wars that are justifiable and those which are not — 
wars which are aggressive and those which are defensive — • 
wars which are those of conquest, political intrigue, of 
national vanity, and those which are wars for national 
security, national preservation, for the assertion and main- 
tenance of right and liberty — those wars which are deliber- 
ately and unscrupuloixsly planned, and those which suddenly 
arise and become inevitable in some unforeseen complica- 
tions of international concerns. My purpose is not thus 
comprehensive, and yet what I propose to say on my sub- 
ject will apply to all wars, the best even as well as the 
worst. I desire to confine my attention to that which is 



The Cost of War. 343 

essential to war, to that which is inseparable from its exist- 
ence. But Avhile I count the cost, I would have men, when 
duty demands, bravely pay it to the utmost. 

I. One cost of war is that of hostility. Peace must be 
broken. Parties who had been friendly, or who, at least, 
had been tolerant to each other, must take opposite sides, 
and enter on a work of mutual injury. War is outward, 
inward, universal contest. It is not on the battle-field 
alone that men at war with one another come into collision, 
but at almost every point of life. "Where they used to join 
in the grand commerce and comities of the world, they meet 
to fight ; and land and sea, which used to be common to 
them all for intercourse and pleasure, for travel and for 
traffic, are now beset with danger and destruction. They 
will not buy of one another, they will not sell to one 
another, and the third party who would deal with both 
will have, by turns, both for his enemies. The have no 
longer together a common object or a common interest. 
They can unite in no august plans of principles or of ac- 
tions — can have no interchange of congregated courtesies — 
can have no joyous multitudes reciprocally paying or return- 
ing visits — can have no combined associations for the pro- 
motion of science, of art, of agriculture — can have in union 
no Crystal Palace. In these respects, modern wars difier 
from those of ancient Greece, and from those of the Middle 
Ages ; for the wars of ancient Greece did not interfere 
with the sacred games, and the wars of the Middle Ages 
had temporary cessation during the truce of God. But 
the men and times in those instances were difi'erent from 
our men and times ; and as the sooner Avars are concluded 
the better, it is perhaps an advantage that they should as 
little as possible be prolonged. 

The hostile relations into which war throws men are not 
confined to open and palpable ones. Hostility penetrates 



344 Giles' Lectures. 

to their inmost consciousness. It enters into their thoughts, 
their feelings, their opinions, their passions ; head, heart, 
and conscience share in it ; it saturates not alone the social 
and the physical man, but the intellectual, the moral, the 
spiritual man. Men opposed ta each other in war cannot 
think or feel of each other as they do in peace ; they cannot 
justly estimate each other, and they can hardly pray for each 
other. From the fullness of the mind the mouth speaks, 
so men in these relations seldom speak well or truly of 
each other. Nor is it thus with those alone who practically 
fight in the quarrel, or who politically govern it, but with 
whole nations and communities ; and often the disposition 
grows into fierceness in proportion to its distance from 
the centre of the contest. Those who actually engage in 
the contest may learn to respect, even to admire each other ; 
those who politically govern it are generally, by the nature 
of their position, kept free from personal excitements ; they 
are either calm in the elevation of their views, or they are 
cool in the sagacity of cunning or ambition. The fire is 
hottest among the passions of the many, and it is such 
passions that supply the energies by which the contest is 
sustained. In these passions is the motive power, and 
without that motive power, the best intellects to guide, 
the best instruments to execute, would be inert and in 
vain. Let the fire go out which boils popular feeHng into 
steam, then the best-contrived machineries of war will soon 
be stopped. A state of war is, upon the whole, a condition 
of public anger ; and individuals or classes share in it 
according to their temperaments, habits, or education. The 
anger may be righteous or not, may be noble or otherwise, 
may have been aroused by the most enlightened sentiments 
or by the blindest passions, but none the less, for the time 
being, it is anger. A wise man can be angry as well as a 
fool ; and though there may be wisdom in the wise man's 



The Cost of War. 345 

anger, and only folly in the fool's, both are in a condition 
of excitement. A just man may be terrible in his wrath, 
and in his wrath he may not forget justice ; but he is not 
the calm, just man until his wrath has ceased. Now, we 
know that the best man cannot look upon cause or person 
while thus moved as he did while he was yet tranquil ; and 
however fitting the movement may be, we must not con- 
found it with mental and moral conditions entirely different. 
These remarks are true of nations and communities ; they 
are, while in a state of war, in a state of anger, and this 
anger, as shown in the aggregate of popular feelings, has 
generally a strong mixture in it of hatred, scorn, and con- 
tempt. Take the case of the English and French through- 
out the Bonapartean wai-s. Napoleon was not only hated 
by the English masses with the deepest hatred, he was 
abused with the grossest ribaldry, and mocked in every 
manner in which the most scoffing caricatures and lam- 
poons could mock him. The higher literature, though in 
a different way, was of the same spirit. Would Colonel 
Napier have dared to write of Napoleon, for even educated 
Englishmen, while the war was going on, as he wrote of 
him afterwai'ds, when the war was over? Then, among 
most Englishmen who had not made the trial, it was an 
accepted maxim, that one Johnny Bull was equal to three 
Johnny Crapeaus, and there was no phrase or attitude of 
contempt too scurrilous or despicable in which to represent 
Johnny Crapeau. The French paid all this back in their 
own fashion, and did not spare AVelhngton, the Prince 
Regent, or the whole nation of Johnny Bulls. 

Such, in general, is hostility as we observe it in national 
wars. In civil war it is in every way intensified, and in de- 
gree to the nearness of relationship which had before existed 
between the parties. The more they had lived a common 
life in language, religion, intelligence, education, and wealth 



346 Giles^ Lectures. 

— the more tliey had possessed in common of social and civil 
equality, of political knowledge, of military means and skill, 
the more determined is their strife, and the greater are the 
numbers involved in it. 

II. A second cost of war consists in the demands which 
it makes on wealth, and, at the same time, the injuries which 
it does to wealth. Armies must be collected, and they must, 
in general, be taken from the working population. Laborers 
are drawn away, and yet those who leave, as well as those 
who remain, must have support. The soldier, particularly, 
must be cared for, and that not stingily. It was a prime 
maxim of Napoleon, " that an army should always be in a 
condition to fight," but so it cannot be if soldiers are ne- 
glected. If unsheltered, ill clothed, and ill fed, they become 
sick, spiritless, and feeble. If soldiers are to fight like men, 
they need in all respects the treatment of men, and this 
morally as well as physically; "for character," Sir William 
Napier observes, "is haK the strength of an army." Money 
has been called the sinew of war, but it is as much also the 
sinew of peace ; and it is from this sinew of peace that the 
sinew of war must derive its strength. Money has been 
growing in modern times more and more towards being the 
only medium of exchangeable value, and likewise of nearl}'^ 
all the duties and charities that minister succor to the needy 
or the helpless. Formerly, a man shared his roof with the 
stranger or the homeless ; now he sends him to the village 
inn or to the town establishment, and charges the expense 
to the poor-tax of which he regularly pays his assessment. 
A man once shared with the needy, as he went along through 
life, his house, his food, his clothes, his labor, his personal 
compassion ; and thus people, at least people of middling or 
humble means, met most of the demands made on their 
practical sympathies. Now, I repeat, they pay the poor-tax. 
If rich and generous, besides paying their taxes, they found 



The Cost of War. 347 

or endow institutions, while living, or, when dying, leave them 
legacies. And this is all done with raonej, or what is equiv- 
alent to money. In accordance with the habits of the age, 
whether we pay or give, we do so not in kind, but in coin ; 
and thus also an army must be supported. And this is in 
accordance with the humanity of the age, as well as with its 
habits ; for the humanity of the age will not allow an army 
to live by plunder or exactioiis. In some cases the defeated 
are made to pay the expenses of the war ; but this, whether 
right or wrong, is not always possible. England has in two 
instances compelled the Chinese to do so ; but in the Conti- 
nental wars against Napoleon, she had not only to pay her 
own armies, but also to subsidize those of her allies. But 
if the conquered paid for every war, war is not the less a 
charge on the aggregate wealth of the world. War must be 
paid for, and, whatever comes in the end, each party must 
pay its own expenses for the time being. How is that to be 
done? Simply, with money. "Whence is that to be pro- 
cured ? In a war of emergency, and one in which a whole 
people are concerned, conscientiously, earnestly, and pas- 
sionately, the government will be largely aided by contribu- 
tions, and to some extent by gratuitous service. But such 
aids can at best be but temporary ; and if the war endures, 
it must be systematically sustained by regular pay and a 
standing ai-my. How is this army to have sustenance and 
wages ? Public and private generosity has done all that it 
can or will. The answer now will be — the means must come 
from taxes. But a large army and a long war soon, in the 
richest countries, exhaust the taxes. After a while, the 
direst exigence, the utmost coercion or persuasion, can make 
the people jueld no more. The pressure will bear even 
more heavily where wealth has not been hoarded, but is the 
product of present and continuous labor. The army and 
the wax*, in either case, press on the energies which supply 



348 Giles^ Lectures. 

taxation; and while the demands become more numerous 
and exacting, the means to meet them become fewer and 
more impoverished. Labor is cramped; commerce is plun- 
dered or imprisoned; business is bankrupt or embarrassed; 
men stand idle in the market-place, and women sit listlessly 
at home ; but the war must be honorably sustained, the 
army must be honorably paid and sufficiently supplied. How 
is this to be done ? The present must be mortgaged to the 
future, the taxes must be aided by a loan, and the credit of 
to-morrow must be accountable for the borrowings of to-day. 
This is a dangerous remedy; but when the case is urgent, 
the remedy must be accepted. Doctors, in the crisis of a 
desperate disease, will administer medicines which in other 
circumstances would be deadly, but they take care that the 
doses shall as soon as possible be discontinued ; then they 
apply themselves to reheve the patient from the after-effects 
of the drug, and to strengthen his constitution. This would 
be also a good method for political doctors to follow who are 
forced, in critical times, to pursue a daring course of treat- 
ment of alarming symptoms in the political body. Such a 
crisis comes when the public expenditure exceeds the public 
revenue. A public debt is then the remedy ; and with a 
prudent foresight to its steady payment, and within a rea- 
sonable period, it is often the easiest and the best remedy. 
If one generation bequeaths benefits to its successor, that 
successor must willingly accept some burdens with the ben- 
efits. In nations where war is chronic, this debt sometimes 
becomes so huge as to be beyond the hope of any final dis- 
bursement. But the yoke does not press alike on all, for 
then all would combine to break it. The toilsman, who 
should have the least of it to bear, it often goads to mad- 
ness. It is a load most grievous to bear in the best times, 
""t in bad times it crushes its bearer body and soul. When 
'ndustrious may justly complain, there is profound cause 



The Cost of War. 349 

for social anxietj'. There is darkness in their discomfort, 
and there is danger in their discontent. It is the solemn 
duty of rulers to take heed how they deal with the earnings 
and energies of workers. It is at a terrible peril that they 
consume the wealth Avhich exists already, and sign away for 
ever large portions of that which is yet to be created. I 
find the following statement in newspapers as to the money 
cost of a few great wars. The war preceding the Treaty oi 
Eyswick, in 1G97, cost $130,000,000. The Spanish war of 
1739, settled for at Aix-la-Chapelle, cost $270,000,000. 
The war of the Spanish Succession cost $311,000,000. The 
Treatj^ of Paris, in 1763, ended a bloody struggle which cost 
$560,000,000. The war of Auierican Independence cost 
England and this country $930,000,000. The war of ten- 
years, which is known as " the French Revolution of 1793," 
cost $230,000,000. The war against the first Napoleon, 
which began in 1803 and ended in 1815, cost the extraordi- 
nary amount of $5,800,000,000. The Crimean War cost 
$84,000,000. The last Italian war, not including the hostili- 
ties between Victor Emmanuel, Garibaldi, Bomba, etc., cost 
$45,000,000. The last war in India cost England $38,000,000. 
But the largest regular cost of war is, after, all but a 
fraction compared with the damage which it is to wealth 
and to every kind of human property. The amount of 
wealth which it hinders from being produced, the amount 
of wealth which, it hinders from being distributed, is, of 
course, not calculable, but that it must be vast is certain. To 
this must be added the loss which all wealth suffers by the 
positive destructiveness of war. The havoc which war has 
committed on land and sea, even within the limits of public 
law, there is no human imagination great enough to esti- 
mate. Could all the treasures which war has buried in the 
depths of ocean or otherwise destroyed, be restored, there 
would be enough, it is probable, to enrich the world for many 



350 Giles^ Lectures. 

generations. The money loss, however, of what war has 
destroyed is of small account. It is better that, in this mat- 
ter, every era should look to its own needs, and tax its own 
energies to meet them. But war has destroyed treasures 
which can never be restored. It has swept away the records 
of nations. It has cooked the victuals of its camps by the 
blaze of books which man in his noblest genius and wisdom 
had written. It would roll up ball-cartridges in the lost 
manuscripts of Livy, if it found them, and even if it knew 
them when it found them. It has cast down and defaced 
the most wondrous works of sculptured beauty, such as ima- 
gination dreams but once, and never dreams again. It has 
turned into wreck, or gi'ound into ruins, structures at which 
all beholders wondered, and which, in exciting wondei*, made 
the beholders greater. And war has done this in all ages, 
and throughout the earth — in Heathendom and in Christen- 
dom. War has dilapidated some of the most beautiful 
monuments of Christian genius; and even Christian Rome 
has been sacked more than once by Christian depredators. 
The insane and wanton spirit of mischief in war is often 
uncontrollable. The destructiveness of war is bad enough 
within its legalized limits ; but to such limits it can never 
be restricted, ^^^len the passions of armies are in their 
hottest rage, it is not in the power of the most humane or 
the most commanding authority to stop or stay the confla- 
gration, moral or material, which they enkindle or extend. 
The British armies have not been the worst. The Duke 
of "Wellington had a stern control over his troops, and was, 
withal, a leader that hated cruelt^^ or license ; yet, in spite 
of him and the rest of the officers, the British forces, in the 
capture of Badajoz, did such devilish deeds as must have 
made the historian blush for his nature while he gave 
account of them, and which account will be read by civilized 
men, for all time, with pain and shame. Atrocities as bad 



The Cost of War. 351 

as those of Badajoz are not singular events in the his- 
tory of British armies. They are common in the histories 
of all armies — not alone in pagan and Mohammedan armies, 
but also in Christian armies ; and in these, not alone with 
men of unspai'ing hearts for commanders, but also in Chris- 
tian armies led by men of as much clemency as courage. 
Under certain conditions, such evils are almost inevitable ; 
and though the temper of war has progressively become 
more humanized, it is yet doubtful whether these evils can 
ever be entirely eradicated. War is by its very purpose 
destructive ; it will always be destructive beyond allowed 
usages ; and in states of phrenzied excitement, it Avill carry 
destructiveness to the extremes of cruelty and inhumanity. 
Then, horrible moral depravity accompanies the desire to 
destroy and spoil. Could villages, towns, cities, districts, 
be shown to us in one awful vision, of all time, as war deals 
with them — as ravaged, sacked, burned, devastated — it 
would seem as if hell were opened with its anarchy of flames 
and ruin, and as if heaven were darkened with the smoke of 
the bottomless pit. 

III. A third cost of war is loss of life. 

On this point there is no occasion for any very extended 
remarks. It is obvious enough in itself, and it is of such 
magnitude as not to be reducible to definite statement. Any 
attempt to present to the mind's conception the measure of 
mortality by war, must be vague and feeble ; it can amount 
to little more than the intangible calculations of conjectural 
statistics, or the generalities of interjectional rhetoric. The 
function of war is to fight, and to fight with every human 
energy ; " to imitate," as Shakespeare teaches, " the action 
of the tiger ; to stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood ; 
to disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage ; to hold hard 
the breath, and bend up every spirit to his full height." 
Thus the function of war is to fight, and to fight with all 



352 Giles^ Lectures. 

the strength which mind or muscle can supply. The pur- 
pose of fighting is to kill, and to kill as rapidly and as nu- 
merously as possible — not merely to fell an enemy in every 
blow, and deal a blow in every second, but to sweep enemies 
away by hundreds, by thousands, by a continued tempest 
of missiles and fire, in which time ceases to be noted, while 
Death rides upon the whirlwind and directs the storm. To 
kill is the office and the object of war ; to kill in open strife 
is its direct intention. Yet death in war, by battle or by 
siege, forms the least part of war's mortahty. This fact a 
single instance will distinctly and comprehensively illustrate. 
The instance goes to show that neglect and other contingen- 
cies are more fatal causes of mortality in war than the most 
deadly conflict. Neglect may be corrected, but many silent 
exterminato]-s of life are associated with war which defy all 
experience, and which no skill can baffle. Here is the 
instance to which I referred, and I take it from the pages 
of an English Review. " Napoleon," the Reviewer observes, 
" bestowed much thought on the preservation of his army 
in the intervals between fighting. But even Napoleon lost 
more men out of action than in it. The Russian campaign 
of 1812 was a signal instance of this ; for though he fought 
the bloodiest battle on record since the use of gunpowder, 
the killed and wounded make but little show in the whole- 
sale destruction which mismanagement brought upon " The 
Grand Army." The Reviewer then proves from authentic 
documents the following facts. " The invading army which 
crossed the Niemen numbered 302,000 men and 104,000 
horses. The great battle of Borodino was fought on the 
way to Moscow. In this battle the killed and wounded 
were, on the side of Russia, 30 generals, 1,600 officers, and 
42,000 men ; on the side of France, 40 generals, 1,800 
officers, and 52,000 men. The cold began on November 7th, 
but three days before the cold began — namely, on the 4th 



The Cost of War. 353 

of November — there remained of the mighty host that had 
crossed the Niemen but 55,000 men and 12,000 hoi'ses ; 
247,000 men had perished or become ineffective in 133 days. 
Of the remaining 55,000 men, 40,000 returned to France, 
showing how few men were lost in that masterly retreat, 
either by the severity of the winter or the harrassing attacks 
of the enemy. Even if three-fourths of the wounded had 
died, and allowing for those killed in minor actions and 
operations, it would follow that nearly 200,000 men perished 
by insufficient commissariat, by want of forethought. Here 
is an instance under the greatest of generals, that it is not 
the enemy, however numerous or skillful, who effect the 
destruction of armies. It is fatigue, exposure, want of food, 
want of shelter, want of clothing, want of sanitary preven- 
tion." 

Here is a still later authority on the general destructive- 
ness of life in war in a single army during two years. We 
have these statistics of the sickness and mortality in the 
French Army in the Crimean War. Dr. G. Scrive, Surgeon- 
General of the French Army in the Crimea, in his final 
report said, that the Crimean War lasted, without any inter- 
mission, summer and winter, for twenty-four months. The 
total number of French troops sent to the East at dif- 
ferent times amounted to 309,268 men, of whom 200,000 
entered the ambulances and hospitals to receive medical aid 
— 50,000 for wounds, and 150,000 for diseases of various 
kinds. The total mortality was 69,229, or 22| per cent. 
Of these, 16,320 died of woimds, and nearly 53,000 from 
diseases — more than three times as many by diseases as from 
wounds. Of ordinary wounds, 2,185 ; gunshot wounds, 
22,891 ; frost-bitten, 3,472 ; typhus fever, 3,840 ; cholera, 
3,196 ; scurvy, 17,576 ; feverish, 63,124 ; venereal, 241 ; 
itch, 124. The mortality from scurvy was fearful ; also 
from frost-bites. If such was the case with the French, 



354 Giks^ Lectures. 

who, 1 believe, suffered, least, what must it have been with 
the English, the Turks, the Sardinians, and the Bussians. 
How terrible must have been the united total of want, pain, 
disease, and death. 

Fear of death is a natural instinct, which man shares with 
every animal that has any distinct consciousness of life. To 
have it impeaches no man's courage ; to acknowledge the 
feeling is to the credit of a man's honor, and the acknowl- 
edgment bears witness to his regard for truth. Men who 
became afterwards the boldest and ablest captains, had the 
feeling while war was yet new to them ; and when many 
victories had crowned their glory, they did not shrink from 
confessing the weakness of their early inexperience. If 
I remember rightly, Frederick the Great was not, in the 
beginning of the Seven Years' War, the daring soldier 
which he subsequently became. 

An anecdote told to Coleridge by an eminent officer of 
the British Navy of Sir Alexander Ball, shows that a casual 
lapse may not be cowardice, and should not be severely 
treated. 

"When Sir Alexander was Lieutenant Ball," this gentle- 
man related, " he was the officer whom I accompanied in my 
first boat expedition, being then a midshipman, and only 
in my fourteenth year. As we were rowing up to the vessel 
which we were to attack, amid a discharge of musketry, 
I was overpowered by fear, my knees trembled under me, 
and I seemed on the point of fainting away. Lieutenant 
Ball, who saw the condition I was in, placed himself close 
beside me, and still keeping his countenance directed 
towards the enemy, took hold of my hand, and, pressing 
it in the most friendly manner, said, in a low voice, ' Cour- 
age, my dear boy ! Don't be afraid of yourself ! You will 
recover in a minute or so. I was just the same when I first 
went out in this way.' Sir, added the officer, it was as if 



The Cost of War. 355 

an angel had put a new soul into me. With the feeling that 
I was not yet dishonored, the whole burden of agony was 
removed; and from that moment I was as fearless and for- 
ward as the oldest of the boat's crew, and, on our return, 
the lieutenant spoke highly of me to the captain. I am 
scarcely less convinced of my own being than that I should 
have been what I tremble to think of, if, instead of his 
humane encouragement, he had at that moment scofied, 
threatened, or reviled." — Coleridge's Works, Vol. II., p. 489 
(Harper's Edition). 

This natural emotion is counteracted by other tendencies 
• — by pride of manfulness, by ambition, by a sense of honor, 
by a sense of duty, and, beyond all, by habit. Hardness of 
nerve is not courage. Stupid indifference to death is not 
courage ; mindless disregard of life is not courage. He is 
most truly a brave man who is not blind to the reality of 
danger, but who is yet cool in the clear view of it. Nelson 
was such a man. In the midst of the fiery tempest at 
Copenhagen, he had occasion to write to the authorities 
of the place. He neatly folded and superscribed the letter, 
refused the offer of a wafei', but sealed it elegantly with 
wax, and did all as tranquilly as if he was in his library at 
home — proving thus to those on shore with whom he cor- 
responded that he was in neither flurry nor confusion. 
History has no record of a braver man than Nelson. He 
was brave in all modes of bravery, and with all the qualities 
which render bravery sublime — which cause it to give to 
character and actions a glory that excites enthusiasm for 
ever, and that affects the imagination and the heart like 
poetry and music. Nelson was equally great in the courage 
of deliberation and of defiance, in the passion for combat, 
and in the genius of command ; yet, with all this impetu- 
osity and hardihood, Nelson was of a delicate constitution 
and of a womanly sensibihty. Perhaps no other man evex* 



356 Giles^ Lectures. 

united so much tenderness -with so much indomitable foi-ce 
and purpose. Sensibihty does not lessen courage, but 
beautify it, and the feelings of the man exalt the courage 
of the hero. We mighv; add many names to that of Nelson, 
of men who, though not equal to him in warlike fame, 
resembled him in temperament — such as Chevalier Bayard, 
Sir Philip Sydney, Sir John Moore, and General Wolfe. 

I have merely hinted at the immensity of death amidst 
which war has reveled throughout all time, and throughout 
the world. I will also merely hint at terrible varieties of 
pain with which war inflicts death. These are as many, as 
changeable, and as novel as if they were contrived by the 
untiring ingenuity of diabolical invention. War lays hold 
on the best mechanical genius, and gives to it wealth and 
reputation, according to its success in devising the means 
of human slaughter. The conical bullet has been much 
commended, because, when well directed, its course is sure, 
and the wound it then makes terrible, deep, and mortal. 
And so with all other contrivances that are the best adapted 
to their murderous purpose. I will not be specific in these 
matters, and bring to mental vision what works of death 
war can do with any weapon ; I will not traverse scenes of 
contest, and survey them just when fights have closed, to 
look on the heaps of the slain or listen to the groans of the 
dying ; I will not pace over bloody decks, and gaze upon 
shapeless fragments that shortly before had been hving 
bodies, comely, strong, and full of prowess ; I will not con- 
template the ghastly spectacles of the hospital or the cock- 
pit ; I will leave all this to imaginations stronger than my 
own, that may find interest in such musings. If there are 
some who desire hints more literal, I advise them to read 
Sir Charles Bell's " Letter from Waterloo;" the account of 
the Russian Campaign, by Baron Lari-y, or, perhaps better 
still, that very eminent man's treatise on Military Surgery. 



The Cost of War. 357 

I do not wonder at the reticence of men who have had expe- 
rience in actual war, or at the sobriety of their words when 
questioned on it. Welhngton dishked to speak of his bat- 
tles, and often promptly put down attempts which tended 
to give conversation a direction towards them. When he 
did speak of war, he spoke briefly, solemnly, suggestively. 
" Next to a defeat," said he, " a victory is the greatest of 
calamities." That declaration is more honorable to him 
than a hundi'ed trophies. 

An inteUigent soldier has a just sense of danger, and by 
no means despises it. He enters the field with a firm step 
and a serious face ; he feels that the next moment may be his 
last, and he does not trifle with the thought. The experi- 
enced veteran would call the man a coward or a fool who 
would treat such circumstances with a mock bravado. At 
the approach of a general engagement most minds are seri- 
ous, and this mood continues until it is lost in the ardor of 
the fight. So I have learned from the reading of many 
mihtary memou's, and from conversation with men who had 
known war in all its varieties on land or sea, and these men 
always referred to war with thoughtfuluess and gravity. 
But from these sources of inquiry I also learned that in war 
an army often longs heartily for battle — at times from sheer 
desu-e for excitement, at times from impatience or suspense. 
There are occasions when a soldier sighs for battle as the 
sick sigh for the morning. When fatigued and starved — 
when wornout with marches and counter-marches — when 
his spirits have lost all cheerfulness, and his will all resolu- 
tion — when his hope decays, and his head is weary with 
watching, then he will hail the prospect of a battle with 
wishful expectations, because it gives him the promise of 
deliverance by victoiy or death. The fear of death is, 
therefore, never that which unmans the soldier; this is done 
by the evils and vexations which irritate his temper, under- 



'358 Giles' Lectures. 

mine his health, and which, having consumed the vig-or of 
his life, leave only the dregs behind. Let this vigor be not 
exhausted, then the soldier goes to battle strong in heart 
and hand, and if death there strikes him instantly down, it 
is while he glows with the extacy of impetuous action and 
with the passion of high excitement. It was probably of 
such a death Robert Burns was thinking when ho wrote : 

"Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe ! 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremhie, fell tyrant ! but laiow, 
No terrors hast thou for the brave." 

IV. The only other cost of war to which I will allude 
consists in the amount of misery and affliction, passing all 
comprehension, of which it ever has been and ever must 
be the source. To begin at the centre. The suiferings of 
armies themselves are not all comprised in bodily pain or 
physical discomfort. There is the mortification of defeat. 
Think you how this often pierces the heart of a brave man 
more sharply than the sword. The royal Saul, of strong, 
passionate, and courageous temper, wounded in body and 
hopeless in soul, sooner than become prisoner to the Phihs- 
tines, gave himself the mortal blow. Numbers of brave 
men, have thus chosen the refuge of suicide, or sought 
voluntary death at the close of hope, amidst the throng of 
their enemies. And Ave well believe that this mortification 
is not confined to leaders, but is shared almost to madness 
by the common ranks. The mere susj^icion of being blamed, 
drove the intrepid Villeneuve to do as Saul and others had 
done ; and we have all read how whole regiments, under 
the sting of censure, have, in order to prove their valor, and 
to relieve their mental sufl'ering, rushed into the most de- 
vouring danger. There is also the disgrace of flight, and 
the comphcated hardships and humiliations to which it sub- 
jects the conquered and pursued. There are the tediuiiis 



The Cost of War. 359 

and troiibles of captivity ; and not the least painful among 
the griefs that soldiers feel, is home-sickness, which among 
some armies has often been as fatal as a pestilence. I speak 
not of the demoralization incident to armies within them- 
selves, or of that vrhich they spread around them, for the 
very nature of the topic forbids me to dwell on it. I merely 
say, that if there are those who think that large bodies of 
men can be brought together as armies are, without any 
intensification of the common vices, they have not read 
history or human nature as I have. I would desire, for the 
credit of man, and for the good of the world, it were other- 
wise ; but if it is not otherwise, I would not blind my 
imagination to the fact, or indulge my imagination in an 
idle dream. The fact may perhaps be mitigated, and for 
this end it is the duty of society to use all possible means ; 
but when society has done its utmost, it may have lessened 
the evil — it will not have cured it. Regular armies, in peace 
and under the strictest discipline, are not, at best, the purest 
class of men ; but the very license of armies in peace, would 
be virtue in the armies of war. I sj^eak not of the wrongs 
which such armies commit on the residents of countries 
through which they pass, or in which they may hold tempo- 
rary sojourn, X)ften without attack or provocation. I simply 
suggest that, in the best conditions, injuries are done and 
Avoes inflicted of which history or law takes no account, and 
of which heaven alone is the witness and the avenger. 

As we go out from the centre, we find in diversified rami- 
fications, that war spreads miseries and afilictions to the 
remotest bounds that are in any way related to it. Into 
homes near it and afar off, war carries anxiety, difficulty, 
struggle with reduced means, and the bareness of positive 
destitution. Into these homes war, of course, introduces 
likewise the mental troubles, domestic uneasiness, all the 
various vexations that belong to distui*bed or impoverished 



360 Giles' Lectures. 

households. And it Avorks sadly thus throughout society. 
It reduces the rich man to bankruptcy ; it drives the poor 
man to desperation ; scarcely an individual, high or humble, 
within the reach of its influence, who does not have a share 
in its calamity. To some it may bring worldly success, and 
the elation of mind which accompanies good fortune ; but 
while war may exalt one, it pulls down a thousand, and for 
every heart that it spares, it wounds or bruises myriads. 
From the heart, however, it is that it exacts its keenest 
cost. There it has more than a Shylock-spirit, for it does 
not merely cut nearest the heart, but it cuts the very heart 
itself. If it drenches in blood the places of its fighting, it 
waters with tears the secret retirements of life. When the 
battle is over and the dead are buried, man}"- are they who 
listen for the news, and ask with fear for tidings of the 
loved. Many are they who ask in vain, or who will never 
hear tidings but such as make the day seem dismal and the 
night unblessed. Many are they who thenceforth become 
changed for ever, who accept their affliction with wordless 
tears, who utter no complaint, but keep to themselves the 
holy mystery of their hidden grief. 

When a body of the British army was, some years ago, 
cut off in the mountain-passes of Northern India, the news 
of the catastrophe cast a deathly gloom through the habita- 
tions of the British islands, from the palace to the hut. 
What, then, must have been the mourning of the land for 
those whom the insurgent Sepoys massacred? Under all 
the choruses of exultant Italy, what low or silent anguish 
must have been in thousands of saddened homes all over 
Europe occasioned by Solferino and the groups of murder- 
ous battles connected with it? Waterloo, twice twenty years 
before, filled the private life of Europe with even a deeper 
anguish, for it closed the bloody strifes of half a century — 
closed the excitement of war in the lassitude of peace, and 



The Cost of War. 361 

gave leisure to the bereaved, not only to pine over recent 
loss, but to count up successive losses in melancholy retro- 
spection. If, on one side, there was the loud rejoicing of 
victory, and, on the other, indignant despondency for defeat, 
thousands on both sides were so smitten in those affections 
wherein all men are kindred as to be equal in the common 
humanity of natural sorrow. There are wounds given by 
war otherwise than by the sword — wounds that are deep, 
and that do not close when war has ceased — wounds that 
are long in healing, and in some cases that are never healed, 
but that though apparently grown well, are only dried up, 
always ready to break out again, and to bleed afresh. 
When thus looking steadily and earnestly on the many and 
dread realities of war, one has moods of feeling when he is 
almost ready to lament its presence or its prospect in the 
passionate and pathetic words of the prophet : "Let mine 
eyes run down with tears night and day, and let them not 
cease." 

But with all these costs, war must be accepted. First, as 
a matter of fact. Man seems so constituted that he must 
fight, and decide by battle all his greatest controversies. 
Why this should be so, it is hard to say, but so it is, and, 
in spite of logic or philosophy, so it will probably remain. 
Human nature it is scarcely to be expected will ever become 
so radically changed as to dispense entirely with war. The 
war-spirit may be modified, it may be restrained, but, while 
man is a being of affections and passions, as well as of intel- 
lect and conscience, the Avar-spirit will live in him. The 
movements of his blood will often direct the movements 
of his brain, and he will rather strike than reason, or he 
will hold that, in certain crises of affairs, blows are the only 
fitting arguments. This method is so rude, and apparently 
so inconsequent, that the hope never dies entirely away 

which looks forward to some other more reasonable mode 
IC 



362 Gi.les' Lectures. 

of settling national or ultimate political controversies. 
There are intervals every now and then when long-con- 
tinued peace and prudent negotiation strengthen the hope 
in good men's souls that the time is aj^proaching when war 
shall be no more. But while the sky is all serene, and 
people fondly dream that the millennial morning has 
dawned, a speck of cloud dims the brightness, ere long 
the whole horizon is thick with darkness, and the tempest 
of mortal strife howls all around us. Then we look again 
more deeply into human nature, and we come to the painful 
conclusion that it is no further from the disposition for war 
than it ever had been. We also discover that the long- 
continued peace, and the prudent negotiation which had 
encouraged hope, were owing to any other causes than 
unwillingness for war. But bad as war is, I cannot see with 
this constitution of man, and the general state of the world, 
how it is to be entirely avoided. When two parties assert 
contradictory claims, and there is no supreme authority to 
which they will submit, the only trial which then seems 
possible is a trial of strength. This appears irrational, 
yet it is not so, for it is the last reason, not of kings only, 
but of peoples likewise, and it is, moreover, the last alterna- 
tive. If all men and nations lived according to the moral 
reason, or according to the spirit of Christianity, which is 
the perfection of moral reason, there could be no war. 
But the best live thus only very partially ; and while they 
do so, we must, as best we can, strike the balance with our 
infirmities, and, wisely as we are able, take our choice of 
evils. It is better that men should even be rash than 
craven ; it is better that they should take the risks of war 
than be zealous for peace in a mercenary love of gain or a 
dastard love of life. If men will not strive after the per- 
fection of Christian virtue, which is holiness, it is desirable 
that they should not fall below the dignity of pagan virtue, 



The Cost of War. 363 

wliicli was courage. The very word virtue is Roman, and 
the import of it is manhood. War may indeed often be a 
great crime, and the cause of great crimes ; it is often but 
the sanguinary sophistry of godless pride or of covetous in- 
justice ; and yet, in whatever states native mihtary passions 
have been wanting, grown feeble, or died out, we do not 
find instead of them grand or generous virtues, but mean 
and selfish vices. 

But, second^, war must not merely be accepted as a 
matter of fact — it must often be endured, undertaken, and 
conducted as a duty. The combative instincts and passions 
must be its immediate agencies, but the great jury of civil- 
ized men will in the long run, under heaven, decide the right. 
Through many tribulations, some great questions have 
been already decided. War becomes a duty in many cases 
that cannot be defined. But there are cases in which no 
man can be indifferent — cases in which every man, unless 
he is coward or traitor, must take a side. There may be 
mistakes as to the merits of a cause, but there should be 
none as to the position of a citizen. It is well that this 
should be so. It is well that loyalty to institutions, that 
love to country and the state, should be proved in the 
face of death. If these, the supreme affections of the 
world, can be vindicated only by war, why, then, war is 
inevitable, and its necessity becomes a virtue. But warfare 
should not be hatred. It may strike a human brother 
down, but the slayer must not rejoice in his brother's 
fall. The slayer may take his brother's life, but he must 
not take it with the malice of murder in the stroke that 
kills him. Neither should warfare be ever regarded as a 
contest of mere animal forces. In physical fight, as in 
aU struggles, rtiind should vindicate its dignity ; even then, 
as always, mind should illumine and lift up the body ; 



364 



Giles^ Lectures. 



aud only where mind rules, is contempt of danger worthy 
the name of courage. There alone is the highest con- 
sciousness of life — there alone is a deliberate estimate of 
the cost in losing it. The true and complete man learns 
equally to think, to do, and to die. 




POPULAR WIT AND HUMOR 
SCOTLAND. 



ESPECIALLY IN 



Are wit and liumor necessaries of life, or are they merely 
luxuries? Suppose a mental tariff, which should exclude 
from charge of duty whatever was not of prime necessity, — 
would wit and humor in such case be taxable commodities ? 
I leave these questions for critical political economists to 
solve. For myself, I am not inquisitive, but enjoy "good 
sayings" as I do "good things," and I am not too curious 
to speculate about or to analyze them. A certain gentleman 
of the olden time, concerning whom many people talk, whose 
writings a few people read, has left it on record, that " The 
man that hath no music in himself .... is fit for treasons, 
stratagems, and spoils." Now, with all due deference to 
"the immortal Williams," the saying would be still more 
true of the man that hath no laughter in his heart. And for 
this we have even authority from " the immortal Williams " 
himself, or rather from the immortal Csesar : — 

' ' Let me, ' ' he says, ' ' have men about me that are fat ; 
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights : 
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look ; 
He thinks too much : such men are dangerous. 

He reads much ; 
He is a great observer, and he looks 
Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays ; 

he hears no music : 

Seldom he smiles ; and smiles in such a sort. 
As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spirit, 
That could be moved to smile at anything. 



366 Criles^ Lectures. 

The vulgar proverb, "Laugh and grow fat," has thus, it 
seems, ancient and subhme corroboration. Then will men 
not fear or shun you, but love and court you. You will 
grow in favor as you grow in size, and according to your 
bulk so will be deemed your benignit3^ You will become 
fat because you laugh, and you will laugh because you 
become fat. You will be doubly a benefactor, to your- 
self and to your fi-iends ; you will have laughter in j'our- 
self, and be the cause of it in others. Sometimes they 
will laugh ivith you ; sometimes they will laugh at you. 
But what signifies the means if the end is gained? If 
we had little wit, says the good Dr. Primrose, we had 
plenty of laughter. 

This is no cynical philosophy ; and Heaven forbid that 
such a philosophy should ever be ours. On this matter 
there are two classes of cynics — the " unco gude " and the 
ultra-polite. We will not, with Sterne, say that gravity is 
a mask for the concealment of hypocrisj^ but we do think, 
that to cultivate gravity for its own sake is grim and solemn 
folly. AVe do not blame men who, by natural temperament, 
are habitually serious, or who are made so by weighty 
duties, by many cares, or by a sad experience. Pitiable and 
pitiful is that levity which can easily escape from the honest 
tasks of life, or that elasticity which no grief or sympathy 
can press down or burden. For such characters we have no 
respect, and, if better feelings did not restrain us, we should 
hold them simply in contempt. That disposition alone is 
nobly joyous Avhich is also profoundly earnest ; for imagi- 
nation and sensibility are but poor without intellect and 
conscience. Imagination and sensibility are the faculties 
which are the most directly productive of wit and humor ; 
but void of moral feeling, wit is only keen iudecencj'- or 
pungent mahce ; void of thought, humor is merely vulgar 
grimace or swaggering buffoonery ; it is the presence of 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 367 

moral feeling in both that gives them worth and dignity of 
mind, inuocency and gladness of heart. 

The brightest life has gloomy hours ; the best life has 
remorseful hours ; the most happy life has painful ones— 
and every life should have solemn ones ; and this is in the 
order of Providence and nature. Every year, in climates 
the most fit for man, has its winter. For a time the skies 
are dark, the air is cold, the earth is barren, the trees are 
naked, and all the cheerful beauty of the world seems to 
have disappeared. But out of this comes soon again the 
budding spring, and the annual new birth of animated 
being — the glory of summer, with its splendoi-, rapture, 
strength, and song ; the maturity of autumn, with its gor- 
geous coloring and its gracious plenty. But the "unco 
gude " would have nothing in the year of man's life save 
winter. Man must be always sad of face, of frosty manner, 
and of doleful speech ; he must not caper, or dance, or joke ; 
he must not tell stories or sing songs — or if he does sing, it 
must be a psalm, at least something like a psalm ; he must 
not go to opera or play, and a concert is but barely tole- 
rated ; he may work as hard as he can six days out of 
seven, but the seventh must not be a day of free, healthful, 
and grateful rest ; it must be one of hard routine and ritual 
servitude ; in short, human existence must be at once a 
penance and a toil, wearing by turns the sackcloth of a sin- 
ner and the garment of a slave ; regarding the earth only as 
a place of bondage for the living and a place of burial for 
the dead ; looking to the heavens only as the roof of a work- 
house or the dome of a sepulchre. 

Next in error to these are the ultra-polite. As the " unco 
gude " would destroy the freedom and spontaneity of life by 
spiritual formality, the "ultra-polite'' would destroy them 
by conventional formality. They are creatures of class and 
clique, of clothing and etiquette, who, by much toil and 



368 Giles' Lectures. 

laard training, succeed in giving up to tlieir " set " all that 
was meant for their souls, and who allow fashion and man- 
ners to spoil the grace of nature and to burlesque the work 
of God. In other days all this was done gravely ; in our 
day it is done grotesquely. It is hard to say what there is 
between them to choose. The grave, perhaps, can be more 
deeply vicious than the absurd ; it is certainly less amusing. 
Tradition reports Lord Chesterfield to have been a man 
of genuine elegance. His own manners, then, must have 
been very different from his theory, or his elegance must 
have cost him dearly. Why, a straight-waistcoat would be 
a loose and easy dressing-gown compared with the attain- 
ment or practice of it. A good deal of it might be summed 
up in the direction, " "When in company, except in extreme 
necessity, don't laugh, smile, or show your teeth." Now, we 
can not only tolerate these vulgarisms — we rejoice in them ; 
we like to be where they are found, and found abundantly. 
We not only allow people to show their teeth, but, for every 
purpose except to bite, they may show them as often as they 
wish ; if the teeth are handsome, we share the owners' pleas- 
ure ; if they are ugly, we admire their courage. We can not 
merel}' tolerate a smile, we delight in a grin — the broader 
the better; we are even willing ourselves to grin, moderately 
or immoderately, and we ask for no gingerbread in payment. 
We would hinder no man of his laugh, and a man who 
lovingly laughs at another man's jokes makes good his 
title, we hold, to laugh at his own joke. Would you give 
none of the game to the dog which catches it ? Would you 
muzzle, the ox which treadeth out the corn ? According to 
Chesterfield, a gentleman must not open a conversation with 
allusions to the weather. Then we humbly inquire how 
conversations ever would be opened — ay, or mouths either, 
except for eating or drinking. General society would be 
one great order of La Trappe. A gentleman, according to 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 369 

the same authority, must be brief and infrequent in i-elating 
anecdotes and stories, because otherwise he would betray a 
want of imagination. A good rule, but a bad reason ; for in 
general society there is no lack more plentiful than a lack 
oi. imagination — as the very fewest and shortest anecdotes 
or stories soon make evident. A man should be brief m his 
relation, in order not to annoy his neighbor, who is impa- 
tient to hear his own talk ; and a man should not intrude 
on the company too often, since eveiy one else loves the 
sound of his own voice as much as he does. Lord Chester- 
field would not allow a gentleman to play the flute, because 
playing the flute distorts the countenance ; but a gentle- 
man may fight a duel, and with an honorable conscience 
blow the soul out of his brother's body, or risk the blowing 
out of his own soul — may risk even worse than this for 
both. A gentleman, his Lordship maintains, should not 
play the fiddle, because playing the fiddle involves ungrace- 
ful gesture ; a gentleman must avoid a fiddle-bow, but, 
without impeachment of his elegance, he may draw a long 
bow. A gentleman may be unjust, but he must not be 
rude ; he may hate, but he must not be uncourteous ; and 
the more enmit}' there is in his heart, the more elegance 
there must be in his bearing towards the object of it. We 
trust that the actual behavior of Lord Chesterfield was 
more natural than his code of manners, and that his real 
character and conduct were the opposite to his code of 
morals. 

There is sometimes a rustic gravity — the result partly of 
religious training, and partly of social training — which often 
becomes an occasion of humorous incident. The reserve 
thus nurtured makes any strong outward demonstration of 
enthusiasm appear unseemly, not only as a violation of 
serious-mindedness, but as a breach of decent manners. 
A certain habitual shyness, withal, belongs to this reserve, 



370 Giles' Lectures. 

which imposes silence when the heart would cry aloud. 
This becomes to those who in presence address the public 
an embarrassment, an uncertainty, and a discouragement. 
When the great Mrs. Siddons first acted Lady Macbeth in 
Edinburgh, it was to an audience that seemed moveless 
and dumb. She was in despair. She went more zealously 
to work, and studied some special passages which she 
thought must arouse them, and gave the passages with 
electric passion. For a moment all was as still as usual, 
until an old man arose in the pit, and shouted, "It's nae 
bad, that!" The silence was broken, applause came in 
thunders, and ever since no national theatre has been more 
noisy than the Scottish. 

When popular lectures began in New England, the quiet 
of the audience was a sore test to the speaker, and especially 
if from the other side of the Atlantic. A person not long 
from England was invited to lecture in a country village. 
Should he succeed, he hoped that lecturing might afford 
him a useful sphere of employment. He began his lecture. 
He allowed ten minutes for gaining attention ; but twenty 
minutes jDassed away, and stiU no sign of recognition ; at 
twenty-five minutes he was despondent, and at half an hour 
he was desperate. Ignorant of New England manners, and 
knowing that anj' speaking at aU noticeable was soon in Old 
England cheered, or at the worst hissed, " Well," thought 
he, "lecturing is not to be my destiny; I can't say my 
occupation's gone, for it never is to come." The audience 
moved out at the close as if they were going from a house 
of mourning — a chief mourner indeed was the poor, woe- 
stricken, disappointed lecturer. All his best got-up thunder 
turned oitt to be but a blank cartridge. The lecturer 
walked with a gentleman who was to be his host. The host 
had thoughts, it would seem, too deep for words ; the 
guest, alas ! had thoughts too deep for tears : both went 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 371 

along in serious meditation, but not in fancy free. At 
length the host said, with a gravity of tone which befitted 
the occasion, " What a splendid lecture you gave us ! " the 
guest was then indeed speechless, for he became almost 
choked with gratified astonishment. As if the popular 
habit was not sufficiently strong, and the hearers might 
possibly be surprised into an ill-behaved murmur, the 
president usuall}^, before the lecture began, requested them 
to avoid demonstration, and to observe an orderly quietude. 
Ungrateful that we are, and always discontented with pos- 
sesion, we would now willingly call back some of that 
tranquil decorum which brought into tbe lecture-room the 
sober attention of the church, and yet had its side of 
humorous consciousnefis. Many a face was farcial in its 
drum-tight rigidity, and much fun, drollery, and frolic were 
hidden away in laughing corners of the heart ; not a little, 
too, of satire and criticism. It was amusing to observe the 
gradations with which a stoic presiding ofiicer — the pattern 
and fugleman to the meeting, of immutable propriety — gave 
way to comic influences which he could not resist. The 
face would be at first like that of a judge passing sentence 
of death, then relaxed into wrinkles, then approaching to 
the placid, then cognate to the pleasant, then a twinkle 
in the eye, then a twitching of the lip, then facial longitude 
losing itself in facial latitude, and at last an explosive laugh. 
But this was rare. 

In late years we have changed aU this, and much of it 
for the better. Variety is the spice of life ; wit and humor 
are the salt of it. We cannot sustain physical life pleasantly 
without spice, or at all without salt ; neither can we sustain 
mental and social life without wit and humor, which ax'e not 
only its salt, but also the most pungent of the sj^ices which 
season its variety. 

Wit and humor seems to have given a keen relish to 



372 Giles' Lectures. 

Dean Ramsay; as we see by the keen relish, which he has 
of them, as they appear in the hfe of the Scottish people. 
He has evidently much enjoyed them, and he does not spoil 
his enjoyment by reasoning on it. What is wit, what is 
humor, and what is the difference between them, are ques- 
tions that he leaves to take care of themselves, or to meta- 
physicians, who know everthing in the abstract and nothing 
in the concrete, everything in general and nothing in par- 
ticular. The fact is, that wit and humor, being matters of 
feeling as well as of intellect, evade strict definition, and 
whatever does, evades logic. Logic, in any direction, goes 
a short way with life, and shortest way of aU in the direction 
of sport and mii'th. We feel what humor is, but we cannot 
define it. We feel what wit is, but we cannot define it. 
We sometimes feel when wit is not humor, and humor is 
not wit, and there are times when we cannot tell the one 
from the other — at least we cannot teU the diffei'ence 
between them. Sterne has a fine piece of ridicule on 
Locke's distinction between wit and judgment, and his 
idea that where there is much judgment there must be 
little wit, and little judgment where there is much wit. 
Sterne compares wit and judgment to two knobs on the 
back of a chair, where each answers to each, and where 
one for harmony needs the other. We would use this 
illustration in reference to wit and humor. They often 
seem as like as the knobs on the chair ; often you can 
only distinguish them, as you do the knobs, by the mere 
difference of position ; and frequently, as the knobs cannot 
do, wit and humor so run into one another as to be undis- 
tinguishable and inseparable. There is, however, one point 
of difference which often separates them ; it is this : vrit is 
always conscious and personal, it is an intentional exercise 
of mind in the agent of it ; humor on the contrary may 
be unconscious and impersonal, may be merely casual, inci- 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 373 

dental, and entirely undesigned. Thus, for instance, a man 
may be an occasion for humor, or an instrument of it, when 
he has not in himself the least faculty for it or the least 
sense of it. Again, a man may be in humorous relations 
to persons, places, objects, or circumstances, and be so 
most unwittingly. These are facts of every-day occurence. 
A man who is a humorist in character, as distinct from one 
who is a humorist consciously and by comic talent, is a man 
that is seldom aware of the humor which he embodies, acts, 
speaks, and lives ; like Monsieur Jourdin's writing prose, 
this man performs comedy all his life, and does not know 
it ; and badly indeed could comedy do without him. So 
far is this kind of humorist from knowing his own oddity 
or eccentricity, that he considers himself a model of regu- 
larity and order ; and so far is he from thinking his 
character a ludicrous one, that he esteems it in the 
highest degree commanding and dignified. It is this very 
ignorance of what he is, and the contrast to others 
between what he is and what he deems himself, that are 
the comic conditions of his character. 

"We might dilate more at large on the general subject of 
wit and humor : we might consider them in relation to the 
individual, to society, to nations ; also in relation to times, 
civilizations, customs, fashions : we might inquire under 
what conditions wit and humor most abound ; under what 
conditions they are best or worst ; what is their moral and 
intellectual value : we might distinguish wit and humor, as 
they are unwritten among the people, or as they become 
written and pass into letters : we might ask, and try to 
answer the question, why English hterature should be so 
rich, and the mass of the English people so poor, in wit 
and humor. We might further inquire, why grave nations, 
like the Spanish and the Scotch, should have so far excelled 
in humor brilliant nations, like the Italians and the French ; 



374 ones' Lectures. 

or, perliaps, -why the Irish and Arabians, in some depart- 
ments of the comic, have so excelled them all. But we 
must decline such inquiries, and turn to the more attractive 
matter of our author. 

Dean Kamsay entitles his work, "Reminiscences of Scot- 
tish Life and character ;" but they are nearly all on the 
humorous side. A cheerful, cordial, and humane spii'it must 
the man have had, to have gathered and garnered from 
the Past, such a goodly store of pleasant memories. What 
a companion he would be in the twilight of a summer's 
evening, or by the winter's evening fire, or in a quiet rural 
journey! If Scottish life and character were such as we 
see it in the genial vision of Dean Ramsay, Scotland must 
have been a delightful place to live in. The vision makes 
us think of a northwestern paradise, and inclines us to 
believe that Smollett's Lishmahago, after all, was not so 
extravagant as we used to deem him in his patriotic idol- 
atry. 

The serious portion of the Scotch have always endeav- 
ored, ethically and legally, to enforce a sterner outward 
keeping of the Christian Sunday than it could ever have 
been possible to enforce, even of the Jewish Sabbath. This 
tendency often led to ludicrous results. A traveling artist, 
in a Sunday stroll, asked a Scotch peasant to tell him some- 
thing of a ruin that he was passing in his walk. " It's no 
the day," said he, " to be speering sic things." This brings 
to mind an incident which was related to us in our boyhood. 
We had a friend who studied medicine in Edinburgh. Visit- 
ing a hospital on a Sunday morning, in company with his 
class and the professor, he came to a certain patient. It 
was feared that the patient was in danger of lockjaw, and, 
to test his condition, the professor desired him to whistle. 
"The Lord forbid," said the patient, "that I should do so 
on God's blessed Sabbath." 



Wii and Humor in Scotland. 375 

" On the first introduction of Tractarianism into Scotland, 
the full choir service had been established in an Episcopal 
church, where a noble family had adopted those views, and 
carried them out regardless of expense. The lady who had 
been instrumental in getting up these musical services was 
very anxious that a favorite female servant of the family, a 
Presbyterian of the old school, should have an opportunity 
of hearing them; accordingly, she very kindly took hei 
down to church in the carriage, and, on returning, asked 
her what she thought of the music, etc. 'Ou, it's varra 
bonny, varra bonny ; but oh, my lady, it's an awfu' way of 
spending the Sabbath.' " This puts us in mind of a Scotch 
old lady whom Ave heard of twenty years ago, in Newburgh, 
N. Y. She belonged to the Presbyterian Church there, 
and was very liberal in its support. Music was common in 
most churches by that day. The Newburgh Presbyterians 
decided to introduce it into theirs. But how would the 
Scotch lady take it ? She was a Jenny Geddes in her way, 
and intensified by exile in all her prejudices. So the choir 
determined to be cautious. They merely introduced a 
bass-viol at first, which they supposed would be lost to 
the old lady's deafness in the mass of the harmony. But 
for the slightest sound of horse-hair and catgut in meeting 
the old lady had the ear of a hare. She called immediately 
on the minister. " Sae," said she, " ye hae got a fiddle in 
the kirk ! " " O, madam," he said, deprecatingly, " only an 
instrument to regulate the voices." "Weel, weel," she 
replied, "ye may fiddle yersels to the deil, gin it pleeses 
ye, but ye shana fiddle me alang wi' ye," — and she angrily 
darted out of the room. The fiddle or the lady must go, 
and the fiddle went. 

"The following dialogue," writes the author, "between 
Mr. M of Glasgow and an old Highland acquaint- 
ance, will illustrate the contrast between the severity of 



376 Giles' Lectures. 

judgment passed upon treating the Sabbath with levity and 
the hghter censure attached to indulgence in whiskey. Mr, 

M begins : ' Donald, what brought you here ?' ' Ou, 

weel, sii', it waas a bad place yon ; they were baad folk — but 
they 're a God-fearin' set o' folk here !' ' "Well, Donald,' said 

Mr. M , ' I'm glad to hear it.' ' Ou, ay, sir, deed are they; 

and I'll gie you an instance o't. Last Sabbath, just as the 
kirk was skalin', there was a drover chield frae Dumfries 
comin' along the road whustlin', an' lookin' as happy as if it 
was ta muddle o' the week ; weel, sir, oor laads is a Grod- 
fearin' set o' laads, an' they were just coomin' oot o' the kirk 
— od, they yokit upon him, an' a'most killed him !' Mr. 

M ■ inquired whether the assaulters might not have been 

drunk? 'Weel, weel, sir,' said Donald, 'I'll no say but they 

might be.' 'Depend upon it,' said Mr. M , 'it's a bad 

thing, whiskey.' 'Weel, weel, sir,' replied Donald, 'I'll no 
say but it may,' adding, in a very decided tone, ' speeciallie 
baad whuskey!' " 

We once heard of an old Irishwoman who was quite as 
good a special pleader as this exemplary Scotchman. In 
order to make our anecdote intelligible, we must explain an 
Irish provincial phrase. When one, at least formerly, said 
in Ireland, "Surely, I have earned you," it was to claim the 
dearest title to your regard. It was to say, that the highest 
price had been paid for you, and the last sacrifice suffered 
for you. So the young wife, who had lost all for her careless 
husband, would say, "Ah! Shamas darling, don't you know 
— how I earned 3'ou?" Or the old mother would say to her 
profligate son, " Paudtheen dear, think of me, and think of 
how I earned you, mavourneen !" Now the venerable matron 
with whom our anecdote is concerned had, on the anniver- 
sary of the patron saint, indulged in strong potations too 
devoutly deep, and was on the next morning sadly sick with 
qualms and headache ; then groaned she out in the martyr- 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 377 

dom of her miseiy, " Och, my sweet Saint Patrick, if it 
isn't I that did'nt earn you last night?" Here is a piece 
of unconscious humor. A benovelent lady in one of her 
visits asked a poor woman if she ever went to church ? 
"Ou, ay," she replied, "there's a man ca'd Chalmei'S 
preaches here, and I whiles gang in and hear him just to 
encourage him, piiir body !" We heard in Scotland a story 
in connection with the Doctor's name, almost as good as 
this. The great preacher was once during his sermon 
annoyed by some dogs in the church. He stopped, and 
ordered them to be turned out. When service was over, 
one old woman said to another, "An' how did ye like the 
Doctor the day?" "Ach, but he was gran'!" she replied. 
" Did ye understaun' him ?" inquired her companion. " The 
Lord forbid," she answered, "that I should hae sic pre- 
sumption ; but wasn't he bonnie on thae dogs ?" 

In the religious element of Scottish humor we see the 
keen moral sense of the people, and this is often felt in the 
sarcastic rebuke which their sayings often administer to 
levity or impiety. A young man, going from home, was 
making a great fuss about his preparing to leave, and the 
putting up of his habiliments. His old aunt was much 
annoyed at all this bustle, and stopped him by the somewhat 
contemptuous question, " Whaur's this you're gaun, Robby, 
that ye mak sic a grand wark about yer claes ?" The young 
man lost temper, and pettishly replied, " I 'm going to the 
devil." "'Deed Robby, then," was the quiet answer, "ye 
needna be sae nice, he'll juist tak ye as ye are." We quote 
another saying full as good. A man was fiercely denouncing 
the doctrine of original sin. "Mr. H." said a neighbor 
to him, " it seems to me that you needna fash yoursel' about 
original sin, for to my certain knowledge you have as much 
akwal (actual) sin as will do your business." If these and 
other sayings evince sharpness and sagacity, we find many 



378 (xiles^ Lectures. 

sayings that evince simple-mindedness. We give an instance. 
A man and liis wife fell on a Sunday evening into a critical 
dispute. The wife said she thought David (King David) 
hadna taen much pains when he metred the Psalms ; on 
which the husband " flew into a passion at her ignorance, 
and reminded her that it was George Buchanan who metred 
the Psalms.'' 

The chapter on the old Scottish domestic servant is more 
pathetic than comic. It is very interesting. But the old- 
time domestic — loyal, odd, vexatious, affectionate, impudent, 
trust-worthy, presuming, care-taking, reverential, disrespect- 
ful, wilful, stubborn, daring of speech to criticise master 
and mistress to the face, bold of word or blow for their 
honor behind their back, within doors loose of tongue to 
censure faults, without doors close of lip to hide them — such 
a domestic was not peculiar to Scotland ; every country has 
had him or her, and no country in more perfection than 
Ireland. In that country, in our youth, we knew a very 
complete specimen of the " genus " Caleb Balderstone. His 
name was Paddy — and truer Paddy of his nation or his 
class never existed. His master was suddenly deprived 
of an ample revenue, and at once cast down from the 
height of prosperity to the depth of j)overty. It was that 
worst kind of poverty which we call genteel poverty. 
Paddy was as thorny as a thistle, and his motto might well 
have been, " Nemo me impune lacessit." But to the family 
after their misfortune he was soft and gentle as a rose. An 
old gentleman and his three or four young daughters, with 
Paddy, made the household. They had dismissed the other 
servants, but Paddy they could not get rid of. To the master 
to whom when rich he had been saucy, he was humble when 
poor. The young ladies he loved with more than a father's 
love, honored with more than a knight's courtesy, and 
nothing was more a grief to him than that these ladies 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 379 

should soil tlieir hands or profane themselves N\ith kitchen- 
work. Any drudgery taken from him he considered as 
taken unrightful!}' ; the deprivation was an insult or a 
wrong. It was the only matter, within doors, which made 
him angry or made him scold. But outside he was all brag 
or battle. He had a hard cause to defend, a hard fight to 
maintain ; he would insist that his master had a princely 
income, when he asked a pound of butter on credit; and he 
was ready to knock any one down who hinted a suspicion 
about his pantry or cellar, when the famUy often dined on 
potatoes and salt. The house was encircled by a high stone 
wall, and the entrance to it was by a single gate. This gate 
Paddy kept bolted against bailiffs and executions. It was 
impossible to outwit his cunning or to outwatch his vigi- 
lance. He Avas so fierce in his temper to intruders, that 
even sheriffs' officers became affraid of him. The family 
were restored to their former opulence ; Paddy, of course, 
shared in it, and in a good old age he died honored and 
lamented. This is no. romance. For the credit of human 
nature we are glad to say it is merely matter-of-fact reality. 

The author, at some length, dwells on old Scottish con- 
viviality. This is not a very pleasant part of the book, and 
could not in our day be of any book. Such habits may, 
it is true, have been connected with much in custom and 
character that was hospitable, genial, and mirthful, but the 
better side is so counterbalanced by the worse, that the 
generation of a more temperate age can see in these olden 
convivialities little but their grossness and excess, and these 
they only regard with revulsion and disgust. 

In the chapter on Scottish wit and humor as arising out 
of the Scottish language — including Scottish proverbs, 
besides many excellent etymological and critical observa- 
tions — we find several instances of the quaintest drollery 
and the slyest humor. In an examination of the magistrates 



380 Giles' Lectures. 

of Edinburgli before the House of Peers, concerning the 
Porteous mob in 1736, the Duke of Newcastle asked the 
Provost with what kind of shot the town guard, commanded 
by Porteous, had loaded their muskets. " Ou," he replied, 
"juist sic as ane shutes dukes and sic Hke fools wi'." This 
was at first thought an insult to the House, till the Duke 
of Argyle explained that it meant to describe the shot used 
for ducks and water-fowl. John Clerk, an eminent Scotch 
lawyer, in pleading before the House of Lords in the case 
of a dispute about a mill-stream, pronounced the word 
water as if written waiter. " Mr. Clerk," said the Chancel- 
lor, " do j-ou spell water in Scotland with two t's ?" Clerk, 
a little nettled at this hit at his national tongue, answered, 
" Na, my lord, we dinna spell watter " (making the word as 
short as he could) "wi' twa t's; but we spell mainners" 
(making the word as long as he could) "wi' twa n's." We 
heard another story of John Clerk, as characteristic as 
this of his sarcastic boldness. He was arguing a case before 
the House of Lords, and sjDoke in the broadest Scotch. A 
conceited young peer interrupted him, and said, " Really, 
Mr. Clerk, I cannot understand you." Clerk retorted, "I 
dinna ken if yer Lordship can understaun' me, but I ken 
ony mon of common sense could." 

As we are on wit and humor that arise out of forms of 
language, we shall put a few instances that we find in the 
book under this head. A child, reading the Scripture pas- 
sage where the words occur, " He took Paul's girdle," said 
with much confidence, "I ken what he took that for ;" and 
being asked to explain, replied at once, "To bake's ban- 
nocks on" — "girdle" being, in the North, the name for 
the iron plate hung over the fire for making oat-cakes 
or bannocks. The actual word, however, is griddle, and in 
Ireland it is always so pronounced. The Scotch word is a 
corruption, and hence the child's mistake. But there is a 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 381 

New England story, founded on a similar mistake, that has 
in it a much more audacious humor. We heard it once 
inimitably told by a man venerable for talent, goodness, 
and piety, as brilliant in wit as distinguished in worth. 
We fear that we spoil it in our repetition. A youth in 
Connecticut was reading the Bible on Saturday evening in 
the family circle — the elderly parents at the ends of the 
table, children and domestics occupying intermediate places. 
All, of course, were reverently attentive. The boy was 
reading the twenty-sixth chapter of Exodus, in which de- 
scriptions are given for constructing certain portions of 
the tabernacle. Words are constantly occurring in such 
portions of the Scriptures that would stagger a scholar. 
What wonder that a young boy should blunder ? So, when 
the lad came to verse fourteen, instead of reading, " Thou 
shalt make a covering for the tent of ram's skins dyed red, 
and a covering above of badgers' skins," he read in the last 
clause, "and a covering above of beggars' skins." "Stop 
there, now, my son," said the patriarch ; " let us meditate 
on that. See what blessed times we live in, and what good 
things the Gospel has done for us. When a man becomes 
poor among us we provide for him, we furnish him with 
shelter, food, clothes, and all other necessaries and comforts; 
we care for him, and we console him; we visit him in his 
afflictions ; we cheer him in his age, and in his death we 
honor him. But you observe in them ere old Jewish bar- 
barian times, if a man got down in the world, it was only 
2)uU off his hide and jmt it on a tabernacle." As we are in 
this region of association, we quote a story from our author 
that belongs to it. "A lad had come for examination pre- 
vious to his receiving his first communion. The pastor, 
knowing that his young friend was not very profound in 

his theology, and not wishing to discourage him, began 

by what he thought a safe question, and what would give 



382 Giles' Lectures. 

him confidence. So lie took the Old Testament, and asked 
him, in reference to the Mosaic law, how many command- 
ments there were. After a little thought, he put his answer 
into the modest form of a supposition, and replied cau- 
tiously, 'Aiblins [perhaps] a hunner.' The clergyman was 
angry, and for that time dismissed him. On returning 
home, he met a friend on his way to the manse, and learn- 
ing that he, too, was going to the minister for examination, 
shrewdly asked him, 'Weel, what will ye say noo if the 
minister speers hoo mony commandments there are?' 'Say! 
I shall say te7i to be sure.' To which the other rejoined with 
great triumph, ' Ten ! Try ye him wi' ten ! I tried him wi' 
a hunner, and he wasna satisfied.' " 

The author adduces some very ludicrous mistakes made 
by strangers in Scotland, who assumed to be adepts in the 
national tongue. But he gives no illustration more absurd 
than one which we ourselves heard of in Scotland. A con- 
ceited young Englishman was dining at a ducal residence 
there, and was boasting to the company of his familiarity 
with the Scottish language. He was sitting by the daughter 
of the house, a witty and most beautiful girl. As the ladies 
retired from the dining-room the youth was alert to open 
the door ; the maiden, slowly passing him, said, with an 
arch smile, " J/// ca)dij callant, come lyrie my mou .'" and thus 
turned what might have been his privilege into his punish- 
ment ; for she simply said, " My gay young fellow, come 
taste my mouth " — that is — " Kiss me ; " and the gay young 
fellow looked very like — a fool. 

The section on " Proverbs " we have not touched, for we 
felt that it would require to itseK an entire article, and 
deserve it. The Scottish proverbs, as given by our author, 
are a treasury of originality, shrewdness, sagacity, and 
humor. They have all a strong savor of nationality; many 
are peculiar to the characteristics of the language and the 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 383 

people, and to those which have been adopted from other 
nations, or which are common to all nations, the Scottish 
mind has given its own marked impression. 

Dean Kamsay has a chapter " On Scottish Stories of Wit 
and Humor." We cannot see why the Dean has this 
special chapter, since nearly the whole book consist of such 
stories. We have already selected some of these stories ; 
we will select two or three more. The author tells of an 
old sick beggar-woman, " who drank six bottles of beer and 
half a bottle of whiskey, then fell asleep for- forty-eight 
hours, at the end of which time she awoke quite recovered !" 
This beats Lover's Irishman, who also on a certain occasion 
slept forty-eight hours. He mistook a ship bound to Bengal 
for one bound to Fingal, got into it, and slept forty-eight 
hours in the hold. When discovered and questioned, 
nothing surprised the captain so much as the length of 
his sleep. "Why," said the captain, "I never heard of any 
one who could sleej) forty-eight hours at a stretch." " Och, 
yer Honor" observed the passenger, "ye see, whin tve Iritihmin 
shieeps, ivej^ys atl/inlion to it." 

Dean Ramsay ascribes the legend of the roast goose, the 
the goose with one leg, to a waggish old cook in Scotland. 
He admits, however, that a parallel story is in " The Decam- 
eron," but fancies that, as there was a coincidence of voca- 
tion between the Venetian Chichibio and the Scottish John 
Frazer, there may have been also a coincidence of invention. 
The Dean's version of the story is rather bald. We have 
often heard a more dramatic version among the Irish 
peasantry, and they knew as little of Boccaccio or the 
Decameron as John Frazer did. The legend is probably 
of Oriental origin, and may have come down in several 
independent traditions. The Irish peasantry always con- 
nected it with Dean Swift, as they did, not only all that 
was mirthful, but much that was marvellous. A part of 



384 cues' Lectures. 

our chilhood was spent near the ruin of a castle as old 
as the Anglo-Norman invasion; but many of the people 
believed that Dean Swift had once dwelt in it, and therein 
studied and practised the black art. His mythic servant was 
always called "John," and in the many wit-combats between 
the master and the man, John was always the victor. And 
here is the Irish legend of the goose. It was wet, wintry 
weather. The Dean and John were traveling together on 
horseback. They stopped over night at an inn. The next 
morning John brought the Dean's boots to him thick cov- 
ered with dry mud. " Why didn't you clane my boots, you 
thief?" said the Dean. "Becase, it wouldn't be of any 
use," said John; "wouldn't they be as dirty as iver to- 
morrow ?" " That's thrue," said the Dean ; " faix, John, 
you're a janius, and the world will hear of you, so it will." 
The Dean quietly put on his boots, and gave secret orders 
that John should have no breakfast. When they set out 
on their journey, John had a long and melancholy face. 
"What ails you, John?" asked the Dean. "I ha-ve had 
no breakfast, yer riverence," answered John. "What's 
the use of having breakfast," said the Dean ; "you'll want 
it as badly to-morrow." "Och, Master agra, but the 
ould boy could'nt hold a rush-Hght to you!" They rode 
quietly along, John q, Httle behind his master, and his 
master reading what the people would consider a volume 
of devotion. A gentleman meeting them passes the Dean, 
but says to John, "Who's that?" "Who's that?" returns 
John. "Don't you know? That's the great Dean of St. 
Patrick's— England's pride and Ireland's glory !" " Where 
may ye be going ?" inquired the gentleman. " We're going 
to heaven," answered John. " Is this the way to heaven ?" 
asked the gentleman. " It is," answered John ; " Master's 
prayin' and I'm fastin', and if that isn't the way to heaven, 
I'd like to know which is." At the close of the day they 



WU and Ihimor in Scotland. 385 

camo again to aii inu. The Deau ordered a roast goose for 
dinner. John, wlien the goose was done, served it up to 
his master void of a leg, which he had torn off in the 
ravenous impatience of his hunger. " Where's the other 
leg of the goose ?" said the Dean. " Did yer riverence iver 
know a goose to have two legs, and spicially in winter?" 
retorted John. "Well, I had forgotten," observed the Dean. 
The next morning they rode along, and, as the weather was 
frosty, the geese along the road stood each upon a single 
leg. "Didn't I tell yer riverence," said John, "geese niver 
has but one leg, spicially in winter?" "Whew!" shouted 
the Dean, and cracked his whip. The geese, of course, 
scampered off, and showed plainly that they belonged to 
the biped genus. "What do you say to thai, John," cried 
the Dean ; and with exultant mockery went on, " Geese 
niver has but one leg, spicially in winter." "Och, yer 
riverence," exclaimed John, "why didn't you shout, 'Whew!' 
last night, and crack your whip then ? Who knows but the 
goose woiild have had two legs ?" 

That is a capital instance of sly humor and vindictive 
patriotism which the author quotes from Lockheart's Life 
of Scott. Sir Walter met a quack practising medicine in a 
small country town south of the Border, whom he had for- 
merly known as a blacksmith and a horse-doctor. The 
fellow was dispensing immoderate doses of " laudomy and 
calomel," but excused himself by saying, " It would be laug 
before they made up for Floddon." Something like this 
was the spirit of an Irish schoolmaster. He had been 
deeply involved in the rebellion of 1798, fled for his life, 
and suffered unutterable wretchedness in an obscure hiding- 
place of London. Being a good classical seholai', he after a 
while obtained employment as an assistant in a school, and 
subsequently made a fortune as the head of a great acad- 
emy. He was one day boasting of his wealth to a com- 



386 Giles' Lectures. 

patriot — "And liow do you think," said lie, "I made it? 
Well, I made it by the blessing of God, and Jlogging the sons 
of Irish Tories." 

There are three public characters of whom our author 
makes a good deal — "the Parish Idiot," "the Town Beth- 
eral" (or Beadle), and "the Parish Clergyman." We must 
omit comment on the "Betheral." The character is too 
locally Scottish to be made briefly intelligible, and we have 
no space for explanatory quotation. If we bring " the 
Parish Idiot " and " the Parish Clergyman " into juxtaposi- 
tion, it is with no feeling of disrespect to the clergyman, 
and with no idea that between the two characters there is 
the least possible analogy. In fact, the order of relation is 
not ours, it is the Dean's own, and the Dean has no want 
of reverence for his cloth. We begin with the Parish Idiot, 
or, rather, the harmless, half-witted, chartered simpleton 
of the district. The mental and moral traits of this char- 
acter are well discriminated by Dean Ramsay, and, as is 
proper in such a case, with "a humorous sadness," — with 
" smiles that might as well be tears." One trait of this 
character was diligence in attending church, and a desire 
to be near the pulpit. One Sunday, in a Scottish kirk, the 
minister, on entering, found the parish idiot, Tam, actually 
in the pulpit, "Come down, sir, immediately," was the 
peremptory and indignant call of the clergyman ; and, on 
Tam being unmoved, it was repeated with still greater 
energy. "Na, na," replied Tam, looking down, "juist ye 
come up wi' me. This is a perverse generation, and, faith, 
they need us baith." This reply evinces another trait which 
was often found in this character, namely, an occasional 
power of sarcasm, and a keen sense of the ludicrous. 
" Jamie Frazer was sitting in the front gallery of the kirk, 
wide awake, when many of the congregation were slumber- 
ing round him. The clergyman endeavored to awaken the 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 387 

attention of his hearers by stating the fact, saying, "You 
see, Jamie Frazer, the idiot, does not fall asleep, as many 
of you are doing." " An' I had na been an idiot," cried out 
Jamie, "I wad ha' been sleeping too." Jamie may have 
felt as did a certain friend of ours about preaching. "We 
asked him if he ever went to sleep at the sermon ? " No," 
said he, " but I often wish I could." AVe once, when listen- 
ing to a very silly sermon, heard a gentleman behind us 
whisper to another : " The preacher thinks we are little 
children." "No," said another, "he thinks we are little 
idiots." But such idiots as Jamie Frazer would not easily 
have been imposed on. Great readiness of reply is attri- 
buted also to this order of character. " Daft Will Speir " 
was a privileged hunter in the Eglingtoun grounds. He 
was discovered by the Earl, one day, taking a near cut, and 
crossing a fence in the demesne. The Earl called out, 
" Come back, sir, that's not the road." " Do ye ken," said 
Will, "whaur I'm gaun?" "No," rephed his Lordship. 
" Well, hoo do ye ken whether this be the road or no ?" 
Another trait in the half-witted character is a dislike to 
work. "John," said the minister to daft Jock Gray, the 
supposed original of Davie Gellatley, " you are an idle fel- 
low ; you might herd a few cows." "Me herd!" replied 
Jock, "I dinna ken corn frae garse." This was as good 
as what an able-bodied beggar said to a nobleman, who 
reproached him for asking alms. " Ah, but your Lordship 
would pity me, did you only know how lazy I am." One 
more trait, not illustrated in this book, sometimes belongs 
to the haK-witted, and that is, a wonderful faculty of cal- 
culation. We once witnessed a case in which a seeming 
idiot astonished the most brilliant arithmeticians and alge- 
braists. Their pens, as compared with his brain, were as 
the weaver's shuttle to the lightning's flash. His rapidity 
and power of combining and analyzing numbers was almost 



388 Giles' Lectures. 

a thiug incredible. It was inquired, " What method he 
used?" He said that he did not count by tens, but by 
twelves. This curiously agrees with what Walker — once a 
Professor of Trinity CoUege, Dublin — maintains in his 
"Philosophy of Arithmetic,'' that twelves in calculations 
would have been insuperably superior to tens. 

Ireland had its local simpleton as well as Scotland ; and, 
as in Scotland, between him and the people there Avas much 
the same set of feehngs and relations. We will ourselves 
preserve for history the memory of a local simpleton, whom 
we will caU Johnny Grimes. There was a tragic element in 
his story and his character. Johnny was not only born with 
his natural faculties, but to a good worldly inheritance. 
But in childhood he became an orphan, and a diabolical 
uncle ruined him in his intellect and robbed him of his 
property. Johnny was in mortal fear of a gun — and to sug- 
gest that a wall near which he stood was unsteady, put him 
into agonies of horror. He was good and gentle ; when 
otherwise, it was owing to thoughtless or rude tormentors. 
He belonged to a numerous kindred of wealthy farmers ; 
every door was open to him ; as he Avilled he wandered, and 
with whom that pleased him for the time he lived. He had 
most of the traits which we have already ascribed to his 
class. The Scottish idiot was a thorough Presbyterian ; 
Johnny was as earnest a Catholic. The Scottish idiot Avould 
be near the pulpit, Johnny would be near the altar — and 
it was sometimes difficult to prevent him from being on it 
He was very imitative, and would even copy the priest's 
gestures. There was one old woman in the congregation 
who was a sad torment to him. She was one of those 
suspected pietists, who in ordinary phrase are called devo- 
tees, but whom the Irish more contemptuously call voteens. 
There was no end to her groanings, her gTimaces, her genu- 
flections, and the beating of her breast. Johnny admired 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 889 

lier, and wished to out-do lier ; but after a while gave up 
the struggle in despair. This woman's name was Moll 
Byrne ; and when Johnny was asked what progress he 
made in his pious contest, " Well," said he, " I gave one 
tlnimp, I gave two thumps, I gave a hundred — but ould 
Nebuchadnezzar couldn't keep thumping with Moll Byrne." 
Johnny was fond of tea, a rare rustic luxury at that time. 
An ambitious young beauty gave him quite a feast of tea, 
cakes, etc., that in public he should call her J&.s Murphy. 
The next time Johnny met her, in her finest, at a dance, 
he went up to her, and exclaimed, in h.is loudest tones, 
'■' Och, good luck to you, Biddy ; don't you remember the 
fine meal of bread and cake and tea you gave me to call 
you Mias Murph." Johnny had the aversion of his class 
to work, and whenever his entertainers wished to get rid 
of him, they had only to request of him the smallest task ; 
then Johnny was off, without any formal ceremony of taking 
leave. 

We are sorry that we must soon close. We have not 
half exhausted our author's treasury, or our own. We 
regret that we cannot expand upon the parish minister. 
We must refer our readers to Dean Ramsay's book. The 
Dean speaks of the difference between the olden clergy 
and the present, in humor and free speech. The change 
is partly owing to a change of sentiment, and not a little 
to a change of costume. A man might safely joke from 
under a wig, who, wearing his own hair, would be forced 
to caution ; a gold-headed cane and a clerical hat v/ere 
strong safeguards against obtrusive liberties. The clergy of 
the present day are prim and proper ; but what else can 
they be, when look alone distinguishes them from others, 
or the white cravat, which they share in common with well- 
dressed waiters? 

The racy speech in old-time ministers must have been 



390 Giles' Lectures, 

very pleasant. " Maister Dunlop," said two wags iu Dum- 
fries, to a minister of this kind, " dae ye hear the news ? '' 
'^ What news ? " " O, the Deil's dead." " Is he," said Mr. 
Dunlop, " then I maun pray for twa faitherless bairns." 
We are glad to see that quaint comment on a verse in the 
Psalms made historical, which we had always regarded as 
mythical. It was, it seems, a Mi". Shirra of Kircaldy who 
remarked, when reading out of the llGth Psalm, "I said 
in my haste, all men are liars," — " Indeed, Dauvid, an ye 
had been i' this parish, ye might hae said it at your leesure.'' 
The ndiveie and simplicity of those old-time clergy were not 
less remarkable than their freedom of speech and manner. 
To Mr. Ramsay's stories we will ourselves add two. A 
Highland preacher was told that many of his congregation 
complained of his sermons as being too long. The old man 
was indignant. On the next Sunday he took occasion to 
allude to the complaint. ''' And sae," said he, " ye think my 
sermons o'er lang ; yet there's chiels amang ye that'll gae 
awa up to Lunnun, and listen to Billy Pitt, Charley Fox, 
and Neddy Burke, ay, for five and sax hours at a time, and 
ye winna hear me for twa or three." Another elderly 
minister, whom we will call the Rev. Dr. Scott, listened very 
gravely at a Presbytery dinner to a number of his junior 
brethren, who bitterly declaimed as to the decline of 
reverence, and especially among the young. " Weel," said 
he, " I dinna think sae. The youngsters are juist as gude 
as they used to be." To confirm his assertion he -went 
on : " I was gaein' the ither day into Margery Musclady's 
Public [tavern] : twa Lunnon chiels were stannin' recht in 
the duirway, and they were sweeriu' maist dreedfully. I 
stopped and admonished them ; and whether it was the 
caulm yet dignifeed mainner in whilk I rebuked them, or 
whether it was the pooer o' the word itself, I dinna exactly 
ken, but ane o' them turned quick roun' to me and said. 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 391 

* Thankee, ould boy.'" The people, too, were racy, as well as 
the clergy. "I wonder what'n the minister is greetin' 
aboot,"' said one old critic to another, while the preacher 
was weeping over a very foolish sermon. " Gin ye were 
whaur he is, and had sae little to say for yersel', ye'd 
greet as mickle as he does." 

As it was in Scotland, so it was in New England. The 
clergy and the laity were quaint and racy. "I have had 
many a painful occasion," said old Mr. Howe of Hopkinton, 
Mass., preaching a quarter-contury sermon to his people — 
" I have had many a painful occasion to administer rebuke 
to you from this pulpit ; but I must do you the justice to 
say, that j'ou had always the common sense to know that 
you richly deserved it." A minister who had preached a 
very long and not very lively sermon, thinking his elo- 
quence gave him a title to complain of his fatigue, said, on 
coming down from his pulpit, to his deacon, " O Deacon, but 
I am so tired ! " " And have ye no pity for us ? " replied the 
deacon. "Why," said one parishioner to another, coming 
out of Sunday-morning service, " did our minister preach 
on the sea^et decrees of the Almighty. Wasn't he aware 
that half a dozen of the most tattling gossips of the county 
were present, and that before the afternoon the whole 
matter will be all over town," "So you, they tell me," 
said an elderly theologian in petticoats to a quiet young 
man, "are a XJniversalist preacher! " "Yes, madam, I am," 
was the calm reply. " And you don't b'lieve in the eternity 
of hell's torments ? " " No, madam, I don't." " O, horrible ! 
And do you b'lieve the wicked will suffer at all in the future 
state?" "Yes, madam, I do." "How long do you sup- 
pose ? " " O, possibly a length of duration which no created 
imagination can measure or conceive." " Well," groaned out 
the old lady, partially comforted, " ivell, that's something." 

We are persuaded that gatherings might be made from 



^92 Giles^ Lectures. 

New England life to fill a volume larger then Dean Eam- 
say's — and Dean Ramsay's we recommend Avith all our 
heart to aU who love local knowledge, national enthusiasm, 
innocent hilarity, and mirth that leaves no stain upon the 
memory. 

We close with two short observations ; one as to the 
humor of the book, and the other as to the humor of the 
nation. Most of the humor of the book is in some degree 
clerical, or associated with the religious habits of the people. 
This is natural ; first, because the popular life of deepest 
and most universal interest was connected with religious 
habits and religious institutions ; secondly, because the 
clergy were the most marked representatives of that life ; 
and thirdly, because the author, being himself a clergyman, 
would gather his knowledge a good deal within the sphere 
of his profession. 

As to the humor of the nation, it is, upon the whole, 
grave, caustic, critical, analytic, logical — more the product 
of strong common-sense, of keen and observant intellect, 
than of ready sympathy, quick sensibility, and exuberant 
imagination. This estimate would not satisfy the author ; 
we doubt if it would satisfy any Scotchman. We would 
svij, however, that we do not mean to disparage Scotch 
humor ; we merely wish to distinguish and define it. We 
consider it a humor very brilliant and very rich. Besides, 
we write rather of the popular humor of Scotland than of 
its literary humor. Unquestionably, Smollett, Burns, Scott, 
Gait, and Wilson were great masters of humor, but even 
in these the national characteristics which we refer to are 
strongly marked. As Scotchmen, they had these character- 
istics ; but as inen of genius, they had greatly more. It is 
by comparing nation with nation in their popular life that 
we can discriminate their simplest spontaneous tendencies. 
No one that knew aught of mind, or that ever read histor}', 



Wit and Humor in Scotland. 393 

Las denied to the Scotch wit and humor earnest imagination 
and profound enthusiasm. But the root of these is in the 
soil of logic, and when the root does not grow bravely up- 
ward, and by the s'ap of thought and passion abundantly 
effloresce and fructify, it is apt to dry into a stunted and 
barren literalness. Accordingly, satirists and wags lay 
hold, in bitterness or fun, on this side of Scotch character, 
as they do on the weak side of Irish character, when they 
taunt it with bragging, bulls, and blunders. Our author's 
sensitiveness against such strictures shows something of 
the literalness which satirists and wags ridicule. Sydney 
Smith used to say, " It requires a surgical operation to get 
a joke well into a Scotch understanding." And this our 
author treats as if the immortal Sydney meant it seriously 
— Sydney, who had read Burns, lived with Jeffrey, and 
was at home with Scott and "Wilson ! It was a mirthful 
extravagance, and had no more intention of reality than a 
surgical opei'ation would have had adequacy to the cutting 
of a joke into a Scotchman or any other man. And Charles 
Lamb is also taken to task. " I wish," said he, at a festival 
given to the son of Burns, " it had been the father instead 
of the son ;" upon which four Scotchmen present with one 
voice exclaimed, " That's impossible, for he's dead." So the 
author sets himself to prove that, after all, his countrymen 
were not so much out of the way, for a great many at the 
time didn't know that Burns was dead. This is what 
Lamb would have most loudly laughed at. Farmers were 
2iot long ago in England who hardly knew that George the 
Third was dead, and farmers in Pennsylvania supposed 
for years that General Jackson was still their President. 
The idea of taking Lamb at his word would have been to 
him the most amusing of all absurdities. Lamb was told 
of a man whose arms were shot off in a sea-fight, and, as 
the poor wretch was lifted to be carried to cockpit, his legs 



Giles^ Lectures. 
wag, he d have been sucli an omameut to society r ■■ Thi^ 

-mdependeBco. Hberty, ge„i„., and achievement Th v 
can therefore, weU aiford to bear with the snee^o .a.^I 
and the lauf?li of wae-s • in h« ^i. -^ n , sa.insts 

not less int Uect ofbraver; than ,f ' 1'°' '° '•^"™'' °' 
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